


Take Me Out To The Ball Game (Or to dinner, I'm easy either way)

by Whisper91



Series: Teen Wolf Fic Requests [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Baby Isaac, Baby Scott, Coach Stiles, Derek Hale Adopts Isaac Lahey, Derek is a Good Parent, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Pack Cuddles, Police Officer Derek, Protective Derek, Single Parent Derek, Stiles is great with kids, papa derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper91/pseuds/Whisper91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which single-father Derek Hale falls head over heels for his sons' new Little League coach. Unsurprisingly, it's all Laura's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first in my mini-series of request fillers. As usual, the story spiraled out of control and became fifty times longer than I'd intended. I'm currently in the process of trying to compact it into three chapters, so you'll have to bear with me. :P

**  
**

 

“Beacon Hills Tiny Terrors?” Derek reads doubtfully, holding the black t-shirt away at arms length as though physically repelled by the fabric.

The team’s ridiculous name is written across the front of the shirt in colourful, wobbly _Comic Sans._ How somebody had seen that design on a computer screen and decided it was a good look, he’ll never know.

Laura waves a dismissive hand. “So the guy doesn’t get bonus points for team names; he’s still the best Little League coach this side of the ‘Hills. And he’s all Jackson can talk about these past few weeks.”

Derek glances across the play-park to where his nephew is happily giving orders to his little gang of gap-toothed followers with the military precision of a seasoned vet, a massive grin threatening to split the seven-year-old’s face in two. Much like his mother, Jackson always appears happiest when he’s bossing people around.

“Besides,” Laura adds quietly, resting a gentle hand on Derek’s knee, “it’ll be a great way for Scott and Isaac to meet a few more kids their own age. They’ve got a long summer ahead of them, they could do with a few playdates before school starts.”

The young Alpha shrugs, eyes tracking Scott as the boy darts back and forth between Jackson’s miniature posse near the climbing frame and Isaac’s little party-of-one in the sandbox, although whether he’s relaying messages from their older cousin or trying to coax his brother into joining them on the monkey bars, Derek can’t say. The boys still seem to prefer to communicate with each other through secretive looks and hand signals rather than words, albeit to a lesser extent than they had done when Derek had first adopted them. Especially now that Scott’s discovered how much he _enjoys_ talking; sometimes getting the six-year-old to shut up is the greater challenge.

“They’ve got each other,” the Alpha counters, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as Scott attempts a wobbly handstand in an effort to make his brother laugh. “And Jackson. The three of them seem happy enough together.”

“They’re Packmates,” his sister reasons calmly, folding the Little League shirt and stowing it away in Jackson’s Power Rangers backpack. “Of course they’re going to feel comfortable around each other. But they need to learn how to make friends with people who _aren’t_ like us. Stilinski’s pre-school and elementary teams are all-inclusive; humans and Druids and Weres alike. It’s exactly what the boys need before they get thrust into Kindergarten. And it’s only a few hours a week; it’ll start them off slow.”

Derek sighs, running a hand through his hair as he feels a twinge of unease slither its way down into his stomach. “I don’t know, Laura. Don’t you think it’s a little too early to be pushing them into socialising? It’s only been eight months. And Isaac’s still so shy…”

She wraps a comforting arm around his shoulders and squeezes him into a brief sideways hug. “A lot of six-year-olds are shy, Der. It’s totally normal. And Isaac’s not half as bad as he used to be – you know that.”

Although he hates to admit it, his sister’s right; Isaac’s been coming along in leaps and bounds these past few months, managing to warm to a few people outside of the Hale Pack and tolerating being away from Derek’s side for short periods of time. While he’s still quieter and a lot more easily spooked than Scott, it’s a far cry from the pale, whimpering pup that Derek had found locked in the basement of an Omega-pack’s Den when he’d been called in to respond to a noise complaint from a farmer on the outskirts of town eight months ago.

Dirt-smudged and wearing alarmingly little in the way of clothes considering the bitter mid-winter temperatures outside, Isaac had stared at him with wide, fearful amber eyes, pressing himself into the furthest corner of the dingy basement as Derek radioed for backup and tried not to let his Alpha instincts rise to the fore. But that hadn’t stopped his eyes from bleeding red in response to a confrontation with an unclaimed orphan pup. Consequently, when he’d lowered himself to his knees and reached for the child, Isaac had latched onto him instantly.

The boy had refused to let go, his Wolf binding itself to the first Alpha presence it had encountered. And when backup units had eventually arrived and freed a panicking Scott from his mountain ash prison in the bedroom closet, Derek had found himself sitting in the back of an ambulance with a lapful of half-starved Were-pups, wondering what the hell had just happened.

The boys had devoured the snackpack of Oreos from his cruiser like they hadn’t seen food in weeks (judging by how prominently their ribs had been showing, this was a genuine possibility), before settling contentedly against his chest with the wolf-born instincts of young Betas who’d finally found the safety and security they craved. Derek, a relatively new Alpha at the time, had promised himself then and there that he’d do everything in his power to protect them. Which, ultimately, had meant quitting his job as a police officer to become a stay-at-home Dad. Negotiating the whole thing with social services had been a pain in the ass, but given how badly the pups had reacted to any adult presence besides his own – either shifting and lashing out in self-defence (Scott) or running away to hide under the nearest piece of furniture (Isaac) – the choice had been made pretty clear. You couldn’t separate young cubs from their anchor; it was far too dangerous.

And so Derek had found himself the unlikely father of two affection-starved boys. He wouldn’t lie; acclimatising to life as a single dad had been fucking _difficult,_ and he’d made plenty of mistakes over the past eight months, resulting in tears and frustration from all parties. His mom had been a total godsend, answering every moment-of-crisis text and three-in-the-morning-panic phone call without a hint of complaint or reproof, offering practical advice in return that had helped him to maintain the crucial balance between Pack Alpha and loving parent that the boys needed. She’d also given him the occasional kick up the backside when the situation had called for it.

He’s still not a perfect Dad – there’s no use in pretending when half the time he genuinely doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing – but he loves those boys more than anything, and he’s trying his damned hardest to do right by them. And in his defence, most fathers usually have years to steel themselves for the boisterous curiosity of _one_ preschool child, let alone two. 

“Maybe lacrosse won’t work out for him,” Laura continues, startling Derek from his thoughts. “And that’s fine; parenting’s all about trial-and-error, you’re not expected to predict what your kids are gonna be into.” She bumps her forehead against his temple briefly, a familiar and comforting gesture, before pulling back to smile at him. “All I’m asking is that you give the Little League thing a chance, okay? If the boys don’t like it after a couple of weeks, you can just pull them out again; no harm, no foul.”

Dammit. He hates how infuriatingly sensible she can be sometimes. There’s just no arguing with her logic when she puts it to him so plainly, and as he glances down towards the backpack where the shirt has been (mercifully) hidden from sight, he resigns himself to his fate.

“Scott, Isaac,” he calls, not too loudly; he rarely had to raise his voice around the boys, they’re usually fairly in-tune with their Alpha. “C’mere a second.”

Isaac immediately dashes over from the sandbox like the hounds of hell are snapping at his heels, plastering himself to his father’s front and tugging on the man’s shirt collar until Derek obligingly picks him up for a cuddle.

“You’re not in trouble,” the Alpha reminds him gently, as he too often has to, feeling a familiar ache pulse beneath his breastbone. The boy might have come a long way these past eight months – he doesn’t flinch every time an adult talks to him, or scramble for cover when somebody raises their voice – but he still hasn’t lost that initial clinginess, or his habit of automatically assuming that he’s done something worthy of immediate retribution.

Scott, meanwhile, is a different boy entirely. These days he talks a mile a minute about everything and anything, always buzzing with energy and bubbling with easy laughter. This morning he’d darted away from Derek’s side with an excited whoop the moment they reached the play park, eager to follow in his cousin’s footsteps and act as Jackson’s second-in-command. Never has Derek met another child who so thoroughly enjoys being bossed around; naturally, he and Jackson are inseparable.

Whereas Isaac tends to cling to Derek’s hand for at least the first five minutes, only moving away at the Alpha’s gentle prompting, usually dragging his feet and shooting Derek a look of betrayal as he does so.

“Dad! Did you see me?” Scott asks, skidding to a halt in front of the bench and crashing into Derek’s other knee. His eyes are bright, his usual eighty-watt grin affixed in place. “I jumped off the monkey bars all by myself!”

“Good job,” Derek praises automatically, lifting a hand to mess up the boy’s dark hair as Scott beams at him. “Are you and Jax having fun?”

The nod he gets in return looks almost painfully enthusiastic, and Derek’s neck twinges in sympathy.

“Your Aunt Laura and I were just having a little talk,” the Alpha continues, shooting his sister a quick glance. She smiles at him encouragingly, so he ploughs on, giving Isaac a gentle squeeze. “You know how Jackson plays lacrosse with his friends a couple times a week? We were wondering if you’d like to join him.”

Scott clutches at the Alpha’s hand, brown eyes blown wide in excitement, and starts bouncing on the spot. “Yes, yes, yes! I wanna play, Daddy, please! Please!”

It’s impossible not to crumble in the face of the kid’s enthusiasm, and his initial reservations about the Little League team are momentarily forgotten as he cracks a grin, pulling the little boy into a quick one-armed hug, careful not to loosen his grip on Isaac. “Alright, alright. Settle down, Tiger. We’ll go sign up on Friday, okay?”

Scott cheers, hugging Derek’s forearm hard enough to briefly cut off the circulation to his hand, before shooting a happy grin towards his brother.

“You’re gonna play too, right?” he urges. “You, me an’ Jackson gonna play lacrosse?”

The boy nods against Derek’s shoulder with a small, tentative smile and waves a clenched fist in a half-circular motion, which is apparently enough to reassure Scott. The boy darts off back towards the castle-themed climbing frame, yelling for his cousin, clearly eager to share the good news.

His smile fond, Derek glances down at the child in his lap, carding his fingers through the boy’s sandy curls. “You wanna stick with me for a bit, kiddo?”

The pup nods again, little fingers fiddling with the buttons on Derek’s shirt.

“Okay.” Derek drops a kiss against his hair and sends his sister another sideways glance. She’s looking entirely too pleased with herself for his liking, but he decides not to ask. From experience, some questions are better left unanswered.

“So,” he sighs. “This coach. What’s he like?”

 

 

 

 

………………………………………

 

 

 

Gorgeous, apparently.

And absolutely nothing like how Derek had pictured him. He’d been expecting someone in their late thirties at least, broad-shouldered and stocky, perhaps with a little extra padding here and there, hair either thinning or non-existent. What he _hadn’t_ expected was this young slip of a guy, all lean muscle and long legs beneath his form-fitting shirt and sweatpants. He flashes Derek a bright, friendly smile as he strides across the field towards the bleachers.

Fucking hell. Laura could’ve warned him.

“Hey,” the man greets cheerfully, raising his hand in a wave as he nears them. “You must be Derek Hale. Thanks for stopping by a little early, it’s always easier to get the paperwork out of the way before we start.” He pulls a dramatic face at Scott. “Paperwork’s so _boring,_ you know what I mean?”

Scott doesn’t, of course (being six years old), but he nods anyway, enraptured. Derek finds himself doing likewise.

“I’m Stiles,” the can’t-be-long-out-of-college coach continues, offering the Alpha his hand. The man’s grip is strong and confident, his skin warm and smooth against Derek’s palm, slender fingers squeezing his own briefly before letting go. Derek's immediately struck with the pressing desire to shake the man’s hand again, which is ridiculous, but God those _fingers._

“You’re younger than I expected,” he finds himself saying, because apparently his Wolf has decided to be socially inept today. He feels heat threatening to pool in his cheeks and quickly opens his mouth to rectify the situation.

Stiles just laughs, open and easy, and waves away the Alpha’s apology. “Don’t worry about it, Mr Hale. I get that a lot.”

“Call me Derek,” he insists. _Please._

The coach nods, smiling. “Derek it is.” Then the man’s gaze darts down to the two boys standing either side of the Alpha. “So I guess that means you guys must be Scott and Isaac, right? Who’s who? Wouldn’t want to get you muddled up, would I?”

“I’m Scott,” the eldest boy blurts, apparently thoroughly won-over by Stiles’ easy manner. “And that’s my brother, Isaac.”

Isaac peeks out from his hiding place behind Derek, small hands clinging to the back of the Alpha’s pants. Derek runs a calming hand over his curls and sends the boy an encouraging smile, but the child makes not further effort to move away from his Werewolf shield.

“He’s kinda shy,” Scott discloses factually, “so he doesn’t talk too much, but he really likes lacrosse too. Right, Isaac?”

The boy’s head dips in a shallow nod, fingers tightening around Derek’s belt.

Stiles grins, crouching down to offer his hand to Scott. “It’s nice to meet you, dude. Hey, think you and Isaac can do me a big favour?”

The pup nods enthusiastically. “Sure!”

“I need to get that bag,” Stiles jerks a thumb towards a nearby duffel bag that’s full of coloured plastic cones, “all the way over to that goalpost on the other side of the field. Think maybe you two could lend me a hand?”

Scott almost trips over his own feet in his rush to grab one of the side-straps on the bag, but Isaac remains firmly glued to Derek’s leg, pressing his face into the Alpha’s hip and refusing to budge, even when Scott calls for him.

“Hey, that’s okay,” Stiles reassures easily. “You and me can manage it together, right, Scotty?”

Derek sends the coach a quick look of gratitude for not pushing Isaac into getting involved – under duress, the boy’s prone to tears, which in turn tends to trigger Scott’s protective instincts. And none of them want that. Because if ether of the boys were to Shift outside of the Den, Derek would have to tap into his Alpha instincts to force them to change back before anyone got hurt, and as far as first impressions go, that isn’t exactly what he’s aiming for.

And when it comes to Stiles, he finds himself unusually keen to make a _very_ good first impression.

He takes a seat on the nearby bleachers as Scott and Stiles set out across the field towards the goalpost, Scott’s high voice babbling away excitedly. Even after more than half a year, Derek still struggles to understand the boy’s rambling monologues at times, but Stiles seems to be following the topic-hopping conversation with enviable ease. Satisfied that his eldest pup’s in safe hands, he turns his gaze towards the quiet little boy still clinging to his arm, cautious blue eyes tracking his brother’s progress as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You don’t have to play today if you don’t want to,” Derek reminds him quietly, rubbing a large hand between the pup’s shoulders. “You can sit over here with me and we’ll watch Scott together.”

Isaac turns to clamber up into his lap, wriggling around until he can rest his head against Derek’s chest, his ear pressed against the Alpha’s shirt over his heart.

“Don’t wanna play.”

Derek wraps an arm around the boy’s waist, dropping a kiss against his curls. “Okay.”

When he glances up again, Scott and Stiles are sprinting back across the pitch towards them, apparently racing each other judging by how much effort Scott’s putting into using his Wolf-born speed without fully shifting. He slams into the bench beside Derek hard enough to make the Alpha wince, doubling over with a winded _oomph_ , but he comes up grinning, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked.

“Daddy, did you see me?” he pants. “I beat Coach!”

“You sure did,” Stiles agrees, bending down to rest his hands on his knees exaggeratedly as he gasps for breath. “Bro, you’re like _super_ speedy.”

“I’m as fast as Jackson,” Scott boasts in a rare show of egotism, his eagerness to impress Stiles apparently superseding his usually modest nature. “And he’s a whole year older than me.”

“Yeah? Looks like I might’ve found myself a front-runner,” Stiles tells him, bending down next to a pile of kit to search around in his satchel. “Heads up!”

Scott’s reflexes and coordination aren’t quite refined enough to aid him in catching the tennis ball that’s tossed neatly towards him, but he makes a valiant effort. Stiles praises his attempt when Scott looks momentarily crestfallen at his apparent failure, pulling a binder full of paper out of his satchel as he straightens up.

“We’ll be practicing throwing and catching when the rest of the gang arrive,” the coach adds cheerfully, indicating the net-sack of colourful, spongy balls.

“With sticks?” Scott asks eagerly, and Stiles chuckles as he shakes his head.

“Not today, buddy,” he apologises, retrieving the tennis ball and handing it back to the boy. “In a few weeks, when everyone gets the hang of doing the drills with their hands, we’ll start to use ‘crosses. Why don’t you and Isaac go and practice throwing the ball to each other?” The coach drops down to sit on the bench beside Derek. “Your Daddy and I need to have a little talk about boring grownup stuff.”

Isaac still seems fairly hesitant to leave the safety and security of Derek’s lap space, but Scott latches onto his brother’s arm excitedly and practically drags him away, so the boy isn’t really given the option of saying no. Besides, after about thirty seconds he seems to forget his reservations and starts chasing after Scott’s throws with the sort of enthusiasm he usually only shows at home or around other Pack members.

“This won’t take long,” Stiles reassures him, tugging a few sheets out of a plastic wallet. “Most of the legal stuff was on the electronic consent form you signed last night. I’ll just need some basic info about Scott and Isaac; birthdays, allergies, medical conditions – that kinda stuff.”

“Scott’s birthday’s September 27th,” Derek tells him after a brief pause, keeping a careful eye on his boys as they start to play a game of who-can-throw-the-furthest. “He’ll be turning seven. Isaac’s birthday’s roughly six months after that, give or take. Sometime in March.”

Stiles’ pen stops scratching against the paper, and Derek can almost _feel_ the perplexed look he’s getting; it’s the same one he always gets whenever he needs to sign the boys up for something. No matter how many times he says it, he knows people are always going to end up confused.

“Isaac was never registered,” he explains, and while he tries to sound neutral and unaffected about the whole thing, that steely hint of protective _stop asking questions now_ still sneaks into his voice. “He doesn’t have a birth certificate, so all the doctors could give me was an approximate age based on his physical development. I was going to let him pick a day in March to claim as his own; haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“That’s cool,” Stiles comments, unaffected, and writes something else down. “Let me know when he’s picked one and I’ll mark it down in the calendar.”

Derek shoots the younger man a sideways glance, but Stiles doesn’t show any signs of being sarcastic in his request. The man’s busy filing the sheet away in his binder, pen held between his teeth and brow creased in concentration as he pulls out another form.

“Allergies?”

“Mountain ash, Wolfsbane, Lyra water,” Derek lists automatically, still a little befuddled that he hasn’t been bombarded with the usual _questions_ about the boys’ past. “Scott and Isaac are Werewolves, like me.”

“Four or five Packs have signed their kids up this summer,” Stiles discloses cheerfully. “I’m assuming your pups already know Jackson. I’ll do my best to pair the kids up with people they’re familiar with for the first few weeks, it’ll give them time to adjust.”

Derek feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease. “That’d be great. Isaac’s still…he’s not as outgoing as Scott. I think it’ll take a couple of sessions before he’s willing to leave the bench.”

“I wouldn’t set your heart on it,” the coach remarks, a smile tugging at his lips as he shoots a quick glance towards where the boys are now playing two-person dodgeball. “He might surprise you. The quiet ones usually do.”

Stiles slides the sheet of paper back into its proper place and seals the plastic pocket, standing up to return the binder to his satchel. He straightens up again just in time to receive a tennis ball to the face, the green projectile bouncing off his cheek with a painful sounding _‘thwack’._ It seems to throw him off-balance, and as he adjusts his footing to compensate, he catches the back of his knees against the bench behind him and promptly topples backwards in a flurry of flailing limbs.

Derek winces sympathetically and quickly moves to assess the damage, but Stiles is already starting to clamber to his feet, pink-faced and laughing. Derek reaches down to offer him a hand up, letting his other hand linger on the man’s bicep as he waits for Stiles to regain his balance.

“I’m sorry!” Scott cries, dashing over to hover nervously a couple of feet away, clutching his hands to his chest as though he might accidentally cause more damage if he releases them. “I didn’t mean to, honest!”

“S’okay, buddy,” Stiles reassures, rubbing at the vivid red splotch on his right cheek. “That’s a good arm you got there. But maybe you should try throwing it the other way instead, alright?”

Scott nods, his demeanour very much subdued compared to his previous enthusiasm as he inches closer to Derek’s side, eyeing Stiles worriedly.

“You hurt bad, Coach?”

“Nah,” he dismisses with a wry grin. “Bruised my pride more than anything. Bet it looked pretty spectacular though.”

Scott hurries to assure him that it did, even though Derek’s fairly certain the boy doesn’t fully understand what ‘spectacular’ means. He finds himself smiling again (something he seems to be doing a lot of around Stiles) as he drops a hand into Scott’s hair. The boy tips his head back to grin at him, his grief over Stiles’ minor injury apparently forgotten.

 Another little body suddenly collides with the back of Derek’s legs.

“Isaac?” he prompts softly, when small arms immediately cling to him. “What’s wrong, cub?”

The reason for the boy’s sudden nervousness becomes apparent a moment later when a group of adults and children spill onto the playing field from the entrance nearest the parking lot. Even from a distance, the loud babbling of excited pre-schoolers is impressively loud.

“Shoot, almost forgot…” Stiles bends down to rummage around in a second, smaller duffel bag, and when he straightens again there’s a thick wad of folded fabric in his hand. He beams at Scott and what’s visible of Isaac, unfurling his bounty with a flourish. “You guys need your t-shirts.”

It takes a few minutes to get the boys changed; Scott because he’s so excited he’s practically vibrating on the spot, and Isaac because the pup won’t let go of him long enough for Derek to thread an arm through the sleeve. By the time they’re done, a dozen or so children have already arrived and are running between their chatting parents in a frenzied game of freeze-tag. All the kids look roughly the same age, about six or seven, and it’s a pleasant surprise to see Were-pups here that he doesn’t recognise. There are a few he knows both by scent and by their parents’ faces, but the Werewolf community in Beacon Hills has grown so large these past ten years that there are several Packs he wouldn’t even know by name. His mom would know, but that’s all part of her job as Peacekeeper. Derek’s exceedingly grateful that it’ll be his older brother Jonathan who’ll inherit that title when his mother retires; he has enough trouble maintaining peace between two six-year-old boys most days, let alone a rapidly expanding community of supernatural folk.

“Howdy, stranger.” Laura bumps her hip against his as she loops an arm around his shoulders. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Where’s Jackson?” Scott immediately demands, glancing around for his cousin.

“Hey Aunt Laura, it’s really great to see you,” Laura drawls, stepping away from Derek so that she can grab Scott around the middle and nuzzle at his throat, growling playfully.  

“It is!” Scott promises, giggling as he tries in vain to squirm his way out of the she-wolf’s hold. “It is, it is, I was gonna say that!”

“Uh-huh.” Laura lands a noisy smooch against his cheek and pushes him towards the small throng of kids who’ve already been ‘frozen’ nearby. “Jackson’s over there with Danny and Erica, sweetheart.”

Scott yells back a garbled ‘thank you’, but he’s already weaving his way between the various groups of adults with determination.

“Laura,” Stiles greets amiably, materialising again at Derek’s elbow.

“Hey, Sugar.” She leans across to pull him into a brief hug, smiling, and Derek’s taken by surprise at the sudden pulse of jealousy that flares up in his chest. “See? Didn’t I promise I’d bring you new recruits by the end of the month? Pretty sure that’s at least another two-dozen brownies you owe me.”

Stiles sighs dramatically, but holds up a hand in supplication. “Alright, alright.” He gives Derek an amused sideways glance. “Dude, your sister’s gonna eat me out of house and home, I hope you know that.”

“It’s not my fault he cooks like an angel,” Laura protests, lifting her chin and looking towards her brother. “Guaranteed you’ll be looking for a way to blackmail him into baking for you once you’ve tasted his cookies.”

Derek arches an eyebrow, glancing between them incredulously. “So I’m your _blackmail_ material?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Laura dismisses casually. “I would’ve dragged you along with me anyway, with or without the promise of brownies.” She catches Isaac peeking out from behind Derek’s leg and her smile softens. “Hey, baby. You ready to have some fun with Stiles?”

Derek feels Isaac shake his head against his hip. He settles a hand on the boy’s curls and sends his sister an apologetic smile.

“We’re feeling a little shy today.”

“You wanna stick with your Dad for a bit?” Stiles asks gently, slowly crouching down to put him on a level with the six-year-old. At Isaac’s quick nod, he smiles. “That’s okay. Moms and Dad are always welcome to join in if you want them to. How about we find a t-shirt big enough for your Dad? That way he can be your ball-buddy for today.”

Derek blinks. “Oh. That’s-”

“A great idea,” Laura enthuses, smiling sweetly. “You wanna play ball games with your Daddy, Isaac?”

The little boy nods again, slowly peeking out from the safety of Derek’s side, and that seems to be the end of the discussion. Stiles sends him a cheerful grin and dashes off to find him a team shirt (the joys), leaving him with his rather smug-looking sister.

His smug-looking sister who also happens to own a _camera._

God dammit.

 

 

 

 

…………………………….

 

 

 

 

“And then we had to carry the balls in a basket and go ‘round the cones,” Scott narrates animatedly, regardless of the fact that Derek had been there and done it all with him. “And Jackson dropped the handle when he tripped so we had to go back to the start, but coach still gave us a sticker at the end ‘cause we didn’t get mad about it.”

“And what does your sticker say?” Derek prompts, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror as he waits in the queue at the stoplights.

“It says _‘I Was A Good Sport’_ ,” Scott recites carefully, pointing at the gold circle on his black t-shirt. “With a big gold cup.”

“Hey, that’s great, kiddo,” Derek admires, and directs his gaze towards his youngest. “How about you, Isaac, did you have fun too?”

The little boy nods, kicking the toes of his sneakers against the front seat and chewing on the straw of his empty juice box. Derek would usually warn the boys against kicking while he’s driving, but Isaac looks so genuinely _happy_ that he doesn’t have the heart to dampen his spirits by scolding him.

Despite his initial nervousness, it hadn’t taken long for Isaac to throw himself eagerly into the various ball games and hand-eye coordination drills that Stiles had conjured up for the session. Although there hadn’t really been _anything_ that resembled actual lacrosse play, there had been plenty of structured catching games designed to teach the kids about throwing to an open player rather than one surrounded by other kids, and a number of object-orientated drills that required them to run and catch and balance and work in teams all at the same time.

And while it had clearly been carefully planned – each activity allocated a specific length of time, with a ten-minute snack/bathroom break halfway through – the whole thing had felt very casual and light-hearted, centred around the idea of having fun rather than the need to learn from mistakes in order to improve performance.

“Can we go again tomorrow?” Scott pleads, leaning forwards as far as he can in his booster seat, arm extended as he tries to poke Derek in the shoulder.

“It’s not on tomorrow, cub,” Derek informs him regretfully. “Sit properly, please.”

Scott flops back again obligingly. “Okay, what about the day after?”

Derek shakes his head. “Stiles only coaches your team twice a week, Scotty. The next session’s on Monday afternoon.”

“But _why?_ ” the boy laments, crestfallen. “I wanna go back tomorrow. Can’t you just ask Coach to come and play again?”

“No, buddy,” Derek tells him patiently, putting the car into gear as the light finally turns green. “I’m sure he’s a very busy man. We’ll see him again next week, okay?” He can’t see Scott’s pout, but he knows it’s there by the sudden silence from the back. He smiles and shakes his head, but decides to make an effort to rally the boy’s spirits. “Hey, maybe we can all practice catching and throwing in the backyard after dinner, how does that sound?”

Scott’s enthusiastic cheer is loud enough to make his brother whine and cover his ears, and Derek has to reach back and neatly pluck the empty juice box from the pup’s grasp before Isaac can throw it at Scott’s head in retaliation, but the offer has served its purpose. Neither boy mentions Stiles’ name again after that.

 

 

 

 

……………………………………..

 

 

 

Until, that is, they bump into him at the grocery store the very next day.

It’s Scott who sees him first. Derek’s busy supervising Isaac as the boy slowly and meticulously selects _Pink Lady_ apples from the crate, inspecting each for bruises or blemishes before passing them to his father to be bagged. It’s a lengthy process, but Derek doesn’t rush him; Isaac takes his fruit-picking responsibilities very seriously, and he’s learned that assigning tasks to the boys during their usual weekly shopping trip is the best way to stave off boredom-induced tantrums.

“Hey!” Scott yells, and drops his hand from the side of the grocery cart to sprint off down the fresh-produce aisle.

Derek reaches out to catch him a second too late, missing the back of Scott’s shirt by mere inches. Momentary panic gives way to heady relief as his eldest son skids to a halt in front of a familiar figure.

Albeit a familiar figure in _glasses._ Derek has to do a double-take when he sees him, and something in his stomach flutters at how well Stiles pulls off the beige slacks and dark grey button-down look. He never would’ve imagined that thick-framed glasses could serve to make an individual _more_ attractive than before, but there’s no denying that Stiles suits the dark-rimmed spectacles to a truly unfair degree. Derek has to remind himself that staring is rude, and quickly shifts his gaze towards his son instead as Scott reaches up to tug on the man’s sleeve.

“Hi, coach!”

Stiles drops the cabbage he’d been inspecting and crouches down with a grin, setting aside his basket of groceries so that he can offer Scott a high-five. “Hey, buddy. Where’s your dad?”

Scott half-turns to point back towards the fruit section, his smile slipping a little as he catches sight of his father’s expression, no doubt remembering the _one-_ _hand-on-the-cart-at-all-times_ rule that Derek had put in place months ago after that unmentionable incident with the security guard and the shaving foam.

Isaac stuffs another three apples into his hands abruptly and slips behind Derek’s legs, his task completed, peeking out at Stiles shyly as the coach waves towards them. Derek dumps the fruit into their cart and reaches for Isaac’s hand, pushing the trolley forwards with the other.

“Look, Dad,” Scott tries meekly, pointing towards Stiles. “Coach is getting groceries too.”

“I can see that,” Derek acknowledges calmly, and reaches for him. “Hand, Scotty; you know you’re not allowed to run ahead like that.”

The boy’s face falls, but he obediently slips in between Derek and the cart to curl his fingers around the bar. Derek lets go of Isaac long enough to run a gentle hand over Scott’s hair, and the boy leans back against him, tense shoulders easing when he realises he’s not really in trouble.

Stiles is watching them with a quiet smile when Derek glances up again, and the younger man seems to shake himself out of his daze before fixing the Alpha with a cheerful grin.

“Hey,” he greets. “Wasn’t expecting to see the three of you again so soon.” He fixes the boys with a knowing look. “Did you guys have fun at practice yesterday?”

“Uh-huh!” Scott enthuses, and even Isaac nods his head and offers the coach a tiny, shy smile. “Me an’ Isaac wanted to practice with you some more, but Daddy says you’re prob’ly busy with other stuff and we couldn’t play again ‘til Monday, but that’s not for _ages,_ so can we play after you’re done getting groceries? Please?”

Stiles blinks, understandably needing a minute to process Scott’s rapid-fire monologue, his gaze cutting up to meet Derek’s, who gives a wincing sort of apologetic smile and sets a hand on Scott’s shoulder.

“I’m sure Stiles already has a lot of other things to do this afternoon,” he reasons, and sees Scott’s brow furrow at the conundrum that presents.

Isaac tugs on Derek’s sleeve and whispers, “How ‘bout dinner?”

“Dinner?” the Alpha echoes, confused, and glances down at the boy.

“Daddy’s making scabetti and meatballs,” Scott discloses cheerfully, face lighting up. “Do _you_ like scabetti, Coach? Daddy makes it really good. You should come for dinner!”

Stiles’ lips press together, expression twitching as he tries not to laugh at the boy’s pronunciation of the word ‘spaghetti’. His eyes are shining with mirth when he meets Derek’s gaze again, and the Alpha feels his own mouth curve upwards in an answering grin. Scott, oblivious, bounces on the balls of his feet and stares at Stiles with eager expectation.

“I wouldn’t want to get in the way,” the coach replies falteringly. “I’m sure your dad’s got stuff to do too.”

“He doesn’t,” Scott tells him.

“I don’t,” Derek finds himself admitting with an easy shrug. “And I do make a pretty mean scabetti and meatballs.”

That finally startles a laugh out of Stiles. The younger man rubs the back of his neck, head tilted a little to the side and cheeks a little reddened. It’s an unfairly attractive look on him.

“You sure it’s not inconvenient?”

“Yes,” Scott insists, although it’s unlikely that he knows what the word actually means.

Derek rolls his eyes and puts his hand over Scott’s mouth. “Trust me, you’d be doing me a favour. It might actually shut this one up for half an hour.”

He gives Scott a playful shake; the boy giggles against his palm, delighted. Stiles’ answering grin is wide and warm and _gorgeous,_ and Derek’s stomach does that alarming fluttering thing again.

“Well, since you put it that way,” the coach concedes, bending down to retrieve his basket of groceries. “I’d love to.”

They arrange a suitable time, and Stiles pats down his pockets for a moment before producing a sharpie, rolling up his sleeve and offering his leanly muscled forearm to Derek so that the Alpha can scribble down his address.

“Left my cell phone in the car,” he explains, as Derek tries valiantly not to get distracted by the sporadic pattern of moles dotted over his pale skin. “Oh, and in case you need to cancel or anything, my number should be on the consent form I emailed to you.”

Derek nods, releasing the younger man’s limb reluctantly.

Stiles offers him another cheerful grin, holding his hand out for Scott to give him a high-five and waving at Isaac when the boy shyly waggles his fingers from behind Derek’s legs.

“Later, dudes!”

And then he’s gone, leaving Derek alone with a borderline-hyperactive Scott and an increasingly clingy Isaac. Not to mention a whole heap of chores to do when he gets home. It’s not like the Den’s _messy,_ but it could certainly use a once-over with a duster and a vacuum cleaner.

Isaac tugs on the back of his pants. “Daddy? I gotta go pee.”

Provided, of course, that he ever actually finishes grocery shopping. 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Derek’s feeling more than a little frazzled by the time five o’clock rolls around.

The Den is clean, something that should probably be chalked up to a minor miracle, given how enthusiastically the boys had tried to ‘help’ him with the household chores. After putting Scott in time-out for spraying his brother with the odour-free disinfectant he’d left out on the kitchen countertop, and later plonking Isaac down in the corner right beside him when the younger boy had attempted to do the same thing in retaliation, Derek had then spent the next forty minutes trying to vacuum the living room carpet with a sniffling, apologetic six-year-old wrapped around each leg.

Eventually he’d resorted to putting on a DVD just to get them both out from underfoot. For a blissful ninety minutes the boys had been adequately distracted by _The Lion King_ , and he’d managed to get the cleaning finished, but his short-lived peace was shattered again the moment the credits rolled.

It’s not exactly the boys’ fault; usually he _encourages_ them to get involved with cooking, letting them add ingredients to mixing bowls and stir sauces under his careful supervision. But tonight he actually wants the food to _look_ edible in addition to tasting good, so having two energetic pups clambering all over him when he’s trying to cook isn’t making his job any easier.

“What if Coach doesn’t like scabetti?” Scott asks him worriedly, bare feet planted against the cupboard door beneath the sink as he uses the lip of the countertop to pull himself up.

“He would’ve said something earlier if he didn’t,” Derek reasons, putting the lid back on the saucepan and quickly moving across to pluck Scott off the cabinet by the back of his shirt. “Down, please.”

The six-year-old’s moving again the moment his feet touch the floor, making a beeline for the dining table instead. “I wanna sit next to Stiles! I’m gonna sit next to Stiles, right? Right, Daddy?”

Isaac makes a wordless noise of protest as he trails along after Derek, tugging on the Alpha’s fingers with his free hand, one arm wrapped tightly around a much-loved wolf plushie.

“You wanna sit next to Stiles too?” Derek guesses, and when Isaac nods hard enough to make his curls bounce, he sniffs a quiet grin. “Alright. Scotty, put that down please.”

The boy begrudgingly removes his plastic-cup hat and puts it back on the table with the others. Derek takes a deep, calming breath and heads back to the stove to stir the bubbling sauce, adding a touch of paprika and a squirt of honey to enhance the rich flavours of tomato and onion and garlic. A few more minutes and he can add the meatballs from the frying pan they’re sizzling in, and start heating up the water for the spaghetti.

Isaac tugs on the back of his shirt as Derek tastes the too-hot sauce, wincing as it burns his tongue.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

When his prompt is met with silence, Derek replaces the lid on the pan and twists around to peer behind him at the little boy, who raises his arms (plushie and all) with a hopeful look.

“In a minute, buddy,” he promises, running a gentle hand over Isaac’s hair. “I need to finish getting dinner ready first, okay?”

Isaac pouts like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s going for gold, and even after months of building up a small measure of immunity against it, he still tends to crumble far too easily. But he really _does_ need to finish dinner, so he steels his heart and returns his attention to the saucepans - albeit one-handed; his fingers are still buried gently in Isaac’s curls. He carefully transfers the meatballs into the saucepan, steadfastly trying to ignore the way that his youngest pup is tugging on his shirt and whining, butting his head against Derek’s hip.

There’s a clatter as a plastic drinking cup skitters across the floor, and Derek’s gaze snaps up at the sound. His eldest boy sends him a wide-eyed look, his hands still poised above his head where his ‘hat’ had previously been, and Derek takes another calming breath, putting the lid back on the saucepan.

“Scott.”

“It was an accident!” the six-year-old blurts.

“And it wouldn’t have happened if you’d left the cups alone like I’d asked you to,” Derek reasons, working hard to keep his tone even. “Pick it up, please.”

Isaac gives the back of his shirt a firmer tug and whines again.

“I didn’t _mean_ to drop it,” Scott insists, even as he crawls under the dining table in search of the missing beaker. “Daddy? I didn’t _mean_ to, okay? Wasn’t on purpose.” There’s a sharp screech of wood-on-tile as Scott pushes one of the chairs back from the table, then: “Ooh! I found a Cheerio.”

“We don’t eat food off the floor,” Derek reminds him quickly.

“Um. I forgot,” comes the belated reply, along with a pulse of guilt that Derek can feel along their bond. “Sorry, Daddy.”

The boy wriggles out from beneath the table a moment later, holding the lip of the cup between his teeth. Derek points towards the sink and moves away to retrieve a clean cup from one of the overhead cupboards, Isaac shuffling along after him, clinging to the fingers of his right hand.

“Cups are for drinking, not for wearing,” Derek tells him, passing it to Scott and sending him off towards the table with a playful swat. He watches the boy set his burden down in its rightful place, than sees little fingers drifting across to fiddle with the cutlery instead, and decides it’s time to intervene before he ends up needing to set the table a third time. “Hey, Scott? Why don’t you go keep a lookout for Stiles?”

“Okay!” Scott chirps eagerly, and dashes from the room to thunder up the stairs, no doubt intending to watch for their guest from his bedroom window, which overlooks the street outside.

Isaac tugs on his hand more insistently, putting his full body weight into it. “Daddy.”

“I know, buddy,” Derek turns off the heat beneath the pan of sauce and gives it one final stir before putting the lid back on to keep it hot, reaching for the packet of pasta. “Just a couple more minutes, okay?”

“But…” Isaac’s voice has that wobbly, tearful quality to it which means that real tears aren’t far behind. “But you said that _hours_ ago, Daddy.”

Derek sighs, closing his eyes briefly as his resolve crumbles, and reluctantly acknowledging that there’s no way in hell he’s going to get dinner finished before their guest arrives. He wipes his hand off on the nearby dishtowel and turns around to pick his son up, the little boy’s arms winding around his neck, curly hair tickling Derek’s chin as the pup rests his head on his father’s shoulder.

“You’re okay,” Derek murmurs, rubbing a hand up and down the boy’s back, feeling Isaac’s body trembling slightly. “Good shivers or bad shivers?”

His son thinks for a moment, rubbing his nose against Derek’s neck. “Good.”

“Ah.” The Alpha brushes a kiss against Isaac’s brow. “Excited about seeing Stiles again?”

Isaac nods against his shoulder and hugs him tighter, confirming Derek’s suspicions that this sudden spell of clinginess is a product of the boy’s brimming energy and peaking anticipation more than anything else. His youngest pup has always been more easily overwhelmed by heightened emotional states, and seems to seek out physical contact as a means of grounding himself. Scott tends to go completely the other way these days, tearing around the place like any hyperactive six-year-old when he’s excited and throwing a fairly impressive temper tantrum when he’s annoyed or upset. Derek never would’ve thought that he’d be glad to witness a child having a strop about not being allowed to play outside in the rain, but given that both boys had spent the first two months of their adoption obeying his every command and flinching at the first sign of rebuke, it had been a relief to finally see Scott comfortable enough to act like a regular six-year-old.

Isaac’s perfectly capable of throwing a tantrum or two himself, but they tend to be much more short-lived and generally involve tears and grumpy cuddles rather than screaming.

There’s a tell-tale creaking from upstairs in a rhythmic pattern he knows all too well, and he glances up at the ceiling briefly before moving out into the hallway, Isaac still clinging to him like a limpet.

“Scott, no bouncing on the bed,” he warns. “You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

“I won’t!” comes the confident reply. “I’m not jumping high, Daddy!”

Derek rolls his eyes briefly. He remembers making similar excuses to his own parents. “I said _no_ , Scott.”

“But _Daddy…_ ”

“Do I need to start counting?” he asks, eyebrows arched even though Scott can’t see him. He rarely has to count. Like most kids his age, Scott can’t stand time-outs, and usually the threat of a countdown is enough to deter him from whatever mischief he’s thinking of getting himself into. Six minutes in the corner might as well be a life sentence given how wretchedly Scott endures the punishment.

The cheerful _ding-dong_ of the doorbell distracts him from his eldest son’s mattress acrobatics. His gaze skitters across to the wall-mounted clock, surprised to note that it’s pretty much five-thirty on the dot. He shifts Isaac onto his hip to free up one of his arms and moves to open the door.

Stiles grins back at him from the porch step. “Hey! I’m not running late, am I? Got stuck in traffic just after Milton Pass, looks like they’re doing maintenance work on the gas pipes again.”

“No, you’re right on time.” Derek feels the minor stresses of the afternoon fizzle into nothing as he returns the man’s easy smile, stepping to one side so that Stiles can enter. “I’m afraid dinner’s gonna be another fifteen minutes or so.”

“That’s cool,” Stiles dismisses, and shifts his attention to the boy in Derek’s arms. “Hey, buddy!” He holds out a hand towards Isaac, who smiles at him shyly before tentatively reaching out to give him a high-five. “Aaay, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

Derek smiles warmly even as he glances back towards the staircase, surprised that Scott hasn’t made his presence known yet. Then again, by the sounds of it, he’s still fully absorbed in his bed-bouncing antics. The Alpha huffs a quiet, fondly exasperated sigh.

“Scotty? Come on down, Stiles is here.”

There’s a brief pause, then a couple of almighty thuds that have Derek’s heart seizing up in his chest, followed a split second later by high whine that quickly builds up into a pained, tearful wail.

Derek passes Isaac over to Stiles without a second thought and takes the stairs two at a time, panic cloying in his chest even though he _knows_ that Scott can’t be seriously injured (in Werewolf terms) if he’s able to cry like that. It doesn’t make the notion of his child being hurt any less horrific. God, he’ll never get used to this, parenting is _terrifying…_

Thankfully, it’s nothing more serious than a bump to the head and a bruised knee, both marks already fading by the time Derek swoops in and hauls Scott into his arms, taking a seat on the edge of the boy’s bed to assess the damage. He cups a gentle hand over Scott’s cheek to leech away the residual pain, pressing his lips to the red patch on the pup’s temple as the six-year-old clings to him and sobs. The ache’s probably dwindled to nothing by this point, but he knows it’s the memory of the pain and the shock of falling that’s made the boy so upset, remembering all too vividly his own childhood experiences with skinned knees and sprained ankles.

It’s not until he’s trudging down the stairs with Scott on his back that he registers his total lack of hesitation in handing Isaac over to a relative stranger.

Not that Isaac seems bothered by it, which in itself is unusual. It tends to take him a little while to warm up to non-Pack members, especially males, but he seems perfectly content in Stiles’ arms, wearing a proud little grin as he carefully adjusts the coach’s black-framed glasses on his nose.

“You look funny, Daddy,” he comments, delighted, and touches the lenses with his fingers (Derek winces internally at the smudge marks he’s undoubtedly leaving).

Thankfully Stiles doesn’t seem to care about smudges. He shifts his hold on Isaac to bounce him up in his arms a little higher, his smile widening as he spots Scott peering over Derek’s shoulder.

“Hey, Scooter! You okay?”

Scott preens, both at the nickname and the attention, and nods quickly. “I landed on my head and it hurt, but Daddy fixed it.”

Stiles gives Derek a serious nod. “Good job, Daddy-o.” He makes a show of sniffing the air. “Mmm. Hey Scott, is somethin’ cookin’?”

The boy grins and throws a hand in the air enthusiastically. “Scabetti!”

Derek laughs, letting the boy slip down from his back when Scott wiggles against his hold, watching with an indulgent grin as the six-year-old grabs onto Stiles’ sleeve and starts dragging him down the hallway towards the kitchen.

“C’mon, Stiles, you can sit next to me!”

 

 

 

 

 

………………………………

 

 

 

 

 

Dinner’s an all-round success, much to Derek’s surprise.

It helps that Stiles successfully manages to keep the boys distracted with ‘magic tricks’ long enough to allow Derek to finish cooking, although by the time he’s set the plates on the table, both of his sons seem to be fully convinced that Stiles is some sort of beardless wizard come to spirit them off to Hogwarts.

The food’s good, even if Derek does say so himself, but the company’s better. Stiles likes to _talk,_ he quickly discovers. But everything that comes out of his mouth is fascinating, and the Alpha finds himself hanging off every word, as thoroughly enraptured as the boys, listening as Stiles tells them about the myths and legends he’s studied in his travels, gathering folk tales with the intention of compiling them into a mythology book at a later stage. He talks about the time he had to bribe a grumpy swamp nymph with Oreos after he’d wandered a little too far off the footpath and trespassed on its territory, and about the mutiny he accidentally started amongst the Dryads in one of the Old Forests across-state after pointing out that the local townspeople had begun deforestation work on an area of land that was supposed to be under conservation.

It would all seem a little far-fetched if Derek hadn’t been able to hear the steady, unchanging rhythm of Stiles’ heartbeat.

“I met a few nasty earth spirits, too,” Stiles tells them, leaning across to gently mop up some sauce from Scott’s chin with his napkin, almost like it’s second nature. “And there are some places that I wouldn’t want to go back to because they gave me the creeps, but on the whole it was one big adventure.”

“I wanna do that when I grow up!” Scott announces, eyes wide as he cuts his gaze to his father. “I can do that, can’t I, Daddy? I can have an a’venture like Stiles?”

“Sure, bub,” Derek agrees easily, reaching over to nudge the boy’s plate closer. “Better finish your dinner first; adventurers need to grow up big and strong.”

Scott nods in agreement at the simple logic and tucks back in with gusto.

Half of dinner ends up down the boys’ shirts, as it usually does on spaghetti night, but Derek had resigned himself to the mess a long time ago, and Stiles doesn’t seem phased by it. Even when Scott clambers into his lap as Derek’s clearing the table and gets spaghetti sauce all over the coach’s shirt, too.

“It’ll wash out,” Stiles says with a smile and an easy shrug when Derek apologises and plucks Scott from the man’s lap to scrub him down with a dishcloth. “A bit of tomato never hurt anybody.”

Scott’s eyes light up in something akin to hero-worship, and Derek has a terrible feeling he’s going to be hearing that phrase for a long time to come.

The hero-worshipping thing is pretty much solidified when Stiles pops out to his car for a second and comes back with a box of homemade triple-chocolate cookies. Derek’s pretty close to worshipping the guy himself after the first bite. Laura wasn’t kidding; they’re to _die_ for. He catches both Isaac and Scott eyeing the open tin as they munch on their second cookie and arches an eyebrow. They hit him with identical pleading looks, puppy-dog eyes engaged to full capacity, and he caves.

“One more,” he relents. It’s a blessing that a pup’s metabolism works faster than the average human six-year-old’s. The sugar high will be very intense but also very brief, and they’ll both drop to sleep pretty much straight away once it’s out of their system. According to his mother, it was actually an olden-days routine to give troublesome kids a spoonful of molasses at bedtime, before modern medicine proved how bad that was for your teeth. Super-fast healing didn’t prevent tooth decay, after all.

He manages to wrestle the energetic boys into their pyjamas and cajole them into brushing their teeth before the weariness kicks in, which thankfully prevents any bedtime tantrums from taking place. Instead he’s blessed with too drowsy, clingy pups who sleepily demand to be allowed downstairs to say goodnight to Stiles.

“Will you come again tomorrow?” Scott asks, rubbing his cheek back and forth against Stiles’ shoulder as though hoping that scent-marking him might make the coach stay longer.

Stiles gives him a brief squeeze, messing up his spiky mop of hair. “Sorry, buddy. I’m all booked up for tomorrow.” He actually sounds genuinely regretful of the fact. “But I’ll see you at practice on Monday, yeah?”

Scott grumbles a sleepy protest, but goes back into Derek’s arms willingly enough as Isaac reaches for Stiles insistently. It makes something tender and fond and _pleased_ flare up in Derek’s chest at how quickly his youngest seems to have warmed up to the coach. And he remains slightly in awe of the ease with which Stiles has handled the two pups, letting them clamber all over him after dinner during their brief sugar-rush without so much as a hint of discomfort, keeping them entertained and engaged with simple, non-destructive games that had allowed Derek the time he needed to clear up the kitchen undisturbed. He knows Stiles works with energetic kids on a regular basis, but there’s a difference between letting two dozen six-year-olds run around a grassy field for a few hours and keeping two hyperactive Werewolf cubs from trashing the living room.

With several hugs and half a dozen sleepy ‘good nights’ exchanged, Derek manages to convince the boys that it _really is_ time for bed. They’re practically asleep already by the time Derek gets them upstairs, crouching down to gently deposit Scott on top of his duvet before crossing the room to tuck Isaac into the other bed, bending down to brush his lips against the boy’s forehead as his youngest snuffles sleepily and wriggles to get comfortable. Scott has already sprawled out across his own bed in an inelegant Starfish, face smushed into the pillow, and Derek leaves him that way. He knows from months of experience that Scott will just kick off the duvet and return to that position if someone tries to tuck him in properly.  

Stiles is sitting in the middle of the couch when Derek makes it back down to the living room, slouched down against the cushions a little, eyes half-closed but with a happy little smile playing around his lips that makes Derek’s heart stutter in his chest. He can’t help thinking about how nice it’d be to come downstairs to a sight like that every day, after his pups are fast asleep and the house has gone quiet. It’s a risky thing to want, a dangerous dream to grow attached to, but Derek allows himself to hold onto to hope, just this once. Because Stiles looks _happy,_ and Derek knows he’s had a hand in that.

“Coffee?” he asks, trying to keep his gaze above Stiles’ shoulders to avoid staring at that slim waist and those long, leanly muscled legs.

Stiles opens his eyes, sucking in a deep breath as he stirs, huffing a quiet, self-deprecating laugh as he pushes his glasses up onto his forehead to rub his eyes.

“God, sorry,” he says, and shoots Derek a grateful, wincing grin. “Coffee would be great, actually.”

He makes as though to get up, but Derek waves him back down again, heading into the kitchen to fix them both a cup. Caffeine doesn’t really do much for a Werewolf besides offering a ten-minute buzz immediately after consumption, but he’s come to rely on it first thing in the morning (when little pups forget that four-thirty is _not_ an appropriate time to get up for breakfast), and he drinks it for the warmth and the taste more than anything. He has _standards,_ of course; Cora and Nick tease him endlessly about how pristine he keeps his _KRUPS Expresseria_ coffee machine, but they never say no to a second cup. Neither do his ex-work colleagues from the station whenever someone drops by to see how he’s doing – the Sheriff in particular is very partial to a cup or three if Derek’s the one brewing.

And apparently the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, because Stile takes one sip of the steaming liquid and _moans_. Derek has to firmly clamp down on his Wolf’s eager response, banishing the mental image of Stiles writing beneath him, sweaty and naked and wanton with his neck bared for Derek’s eager mouth. He closes both hands around his own cup of coffee and takes a fortifying sip.

“Dude,” Stiles murmurs appreciatively, lips still rest against the rim of his cup, eyes closed and glasses steaming up. “Holy _shit._ You ought to be charging for this stuff.”

Derek grins, pleased. “Consider it compensation for being left at the mercy of my pups while I was doing the dishes.”

Stiles huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he bumps his shoulder against Derek’s. “It was no trouble,” he insists. “They’re great kids.”

“You’re good with them,” Derek tells him, and doesn’t miss the way that the man’s smile twitches wider. “How long have you been coaching?”

“Little League?” Stiles asks, tapping his fingers against the side of his coffee cup. “Only since the start of summer. I took an NCAA progressive access course after I finished high school so that I could study and travel at the same time – it was mostly essays and core reading, so I was able to do a lot of my coursework online. I only really had to attend college for my final exams.” He flashes Derek another smile. “I was a volunteer for years though, back when I was in high school. Mostly Little League soccer; the junior lacrosse teams didn’t cater to anyone below Grade 6. My high school coach made me a deal – he’d give me the _‘best goddamn character reference in the history of college applications’_ if I promised to make Little League lacrosse as popular as the other sports teams.”

“Seems like you’ve gotten off to a good start,” Derek comments, remembering the somewhat alarming number of kids and parents that had shown up to practice the previous day.

Stiles flushes, grinning, and it’s a good look on him.

“I probably have my Dad to thank for that,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Half the guys down at the station have kids, and he started dropping hints about summer placements _months_ before I’d actually finished planning things out. I sent him one of the application forms to get some feedback, and he went and made a bunch of copies to hand out to his deputies.”

Derek laughs, because that sounds _exactly_ like something John Stilinski would do. Stiles glances up at him, eyes shining with mirth, and shakes his head.

“Jordan, my Step-Dad, he’s just as bad,” he discloses, but his tone is nothing but fond. “He’s got a lot of ties with the old Were Packs and Druid Clans from the ‘Hills; I’d barely been home two days before I started getting inundated with emails from Alphas asking for application forms. I hadn’t expected quite so many cubs and kits all at once, but I’m not complaining. It gives the kids something to do over the summer; helps them adapt to being around other species before they start school in August, too.”

The younger man glances up at Derek again, his gaze curious. “What made you sign up, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Laura,” Derek admits, and Stiles laughs.

“She seems like the persuasive sort.”

“Mm,” Derek agrees, draining the rest of his coffee. After a moment, staring into the dark dregs that remain clinging to the bottom of the porcelain, he continues, “What you said before was pretty accurate, too. The boys are supposed to be starting Kindergarten after the holidays, and aside from their cousins, they’ve never really interacted with other children before.”

He sighs, glancing towards one of the frames on the mantelpiece above the fake fireplace – it’s a photo of himself and the boys from a couple of months back, mud and leaves sticking to their clothes and skin after a moon-run in the forest, all three of them grinning at the camera. His mom had framed it and given it to him for his birthday a few weeks ago, and it still makes something warm and happy swell tight in his chest every time he looks at it.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m pushing them too fast,” he admits quietly. “They’ve come a long way these past eight months with me, but it hasn’t been easy. Isaac’s still so shy, and sometimes I worry that the doctors got it wrong when they told me he was only a few months younger than his brother. Scott’s more than ready for Kindergarten, but Isaac?” He shrugs. “I’m not so sure.”

“You weren’t so sure about him playing lacrosse at first, remember?” Stiles reminds him, his leg pressed up against Derek’s thigh, a reassuring warmth. “And he surprised you. Like I said, it’s often the quiet ones that’ll do the unexpected. And hey,” he nudges Derek with his elbow gently, “don’t worry about the whole Kindergarten thing, man. You don’t sign a binding contract the minute they cross the threshold – if Isaac doesn’t seem to be coping, you can just take him out for the autumn semester. No biggy.”

Derek arches an eyebrow in surprise. “You can do that?”

“Mm,” Stiles confirms with a nod, swirling the last of his coffee around in his cup contemplatively. “I struggled with ADHD when I was a kid, before my parents helped me to figure out coping mechanisms. I didn’t start Kindergarten properly until the Spring, and I still turned out alright.”

Feeling marginally less stressed about the whole thing, Derek smiles at him gratefully, and Stiles grins back, and there’s a long moment where he can’t stop _staring_ and he can feel his Wolf stirring in his chest, urging him to lean in, to make his move. Thankfully saner heads prevail, and he manages to drag his gaze away, heart beating wildly in his chest, echoed by Stiles’ own thumping pulse.

“It’s getting late,” Stiles points out after a few minutes of semi-tense silence, leaning forwards to set his cup down on the coffee table. “I should probably hit the road.”

“Right,” Derek agrees, and manages to pull himself together long enough to see Stiles to the door. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for having me,” Stiles returns, grinning at him from the porch step, his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks. “It was great seeing you again.”

“You too.” Oh God, he _sucks_ at this. “I’ll see you Monday, right?”

“You’d better,” the coach warns, and _winks,_ and turns to head back down the path that cuts through the front lawn.

Derek hesitates for a moment, but his Wolf is _pushing_ , and he’s quickly losing the willpower to keep his instincts in check, so after a brief pause he calls out after the retreating figure:

“I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner after practice on Monday?”

Stiles pivots abruptly, his grin widening, but he gets it under control quickly and shrugs. “Nothing in the books as far as I remember. Do you like Boston cream pie?”

“Yes?” Derek answers cautiously, a little baffled by the unexpected nature of the question.

“Awesome.” Stiles nods once, then lifts his hand in a wave. “G’night!”

Derek watches him drive away, until he turns the corner at the far end of the road and the car disappears out of sight, before closing the front door and leaning back against it, grinning stupidly at the ceiling.

Turns out Laura was right. He fucking _loves_ lacrosse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been persuaded by my wonderful reviewers not to get rid of all the extra scenes that I'd initially written into this story, which means that after this point the snippets jump here and there sporadically without much of a driving plot besides 'Derek is smitten, Stiles is smitten - they attempt raise a family together. Laura is amused'. 
> 
> Expect lots of short scenes depicting outings and dates and the general cuddly chaos of family life, with a bucket or two of fluff to sweeten things up a bit. Any requests for specific scenes, feel free to leave them below!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your amazing show of support! I really appreciate the kind reviews, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story. <3 See the notes at the end of the chapter for a link to my new fic! :)

 

“ _“Don’t be afraid,”_ said the moon, _“if the forest is too dark to use your eyes, you can follow your nose instead.”_ ” Stiles carefully turns the page, pointing to the new illustration. “The wolf pup didn’t understand how his nose could possibly help him find his way home through the dark, cold forest. _“Follow my nose?”_ he said. _“Whatever do you mean?”_ And the moon-”

“I know!” Scott whispers conspiratorially, cuddled up against the storyteller’s side. “He has to _smell_ his way home. Right, Stiles?”

“Why don’t we find out?” the coach suggests patiently, before Derek can remind Scott (again) that it’s rude to interrupt. Scott nods, fitting the corner of his pyjama cuff into his mouth and gnawing on it as his focus returns to the pages of the book.

Derek hides his smile in his youngest son’s curls, an arm looped securely around Isaac’s waist as the pup snuffles sleepily against his chest. The boy’s eyes are at a permanent squint now in his determination to stay awake until the story is over, unwilling to miss the ending.

Not that Derek can blame him. He must’ve read _The Little Lost Wolf Pup_ a hundred times over as a kid; a dash of peril, a pinch of woodland magic, the thrill of adventure – what wasn’t there for a cub to love? It’s the first time Scott and Isaac have heard it, and they’re both thoroughly absorbed. Derek himself is still reeling from the initial tidal wave of nostalgia he’d been struck by; he vividly remembers cuddling up on the couch with his own father, Laura or one of his older brothers curled around him, helping him to turn the pages at the appropriate points, eyes and fingers tracing the familiar watercolour illustrations as Alexander Hale’s deep, rumbling voice recited the familiar words and phrases that he’d learnt by rote. He fucking _loved_ this story. A British film company had made a short animated adaptation back in the early nineties, and he’d watched it so often that the VHS copy had gone wobbly in places. The modernised CGI version from five years ago had been a huge disappointment in comparison (Derek will deny, if asked, that he even knows of its existence), but apparently that hasn’t diminished his love for the original story. He can’t quite believe that he’s never thought to read it to the boys before now.

They’ve got plenty of books already, of course. One of the first things he’d done after the adoption papers had gone through was drive to the nearest toy store and buy everything he could get his hands on that looked age-appropriate. The number of suitable playthings that the police had recovered from the abandoned Omega pack’s Den was depressingly small; Derek tries not to think about that too much. The boys are his now. And by God, they’ll never want for anything again.

Not that their needs seem to extend much beyond food and affection, to be honest. They hadn’t really understood the whole _playing_ thing at first; it had taken days for pups to figure out how to actually _use_ the toys he’d bought them. And even now, eight months later, they still prefer to abandon their playthings in favour of using Derek as a makeshift climbing frame, demanding piggyback rides and buckaroo launches. The only exception to the rule is Isaac’s wolf plushie, Grey, who has become the pup’s permanent companion. The first time Derek had put the stuffed toy in the washer, Isaac had been near-inconsolable for hours, until the beloved plushie had been returned to him smelling significantly better than before. These days, ‘bath time’ is a monthly event for Grey.

“Finally,” Stiles reads, adjusting his arm around Scott as the boy snuggles closer, “just as dawn was beginning to creep over the hills to fill the forest with pale, golden light, the little lost wolf pup saw a familiar house in the distance. Jasper had found his Den at last!”

Isaac sighs contentedly against Derek’s chest, then tips his head back to smile sleepily up at his father with the pure, untainted joy that only children can find in a simple ‘happily ever after’. Derek returns the smile, dipping his head to nuzzle at the boy’s hairline as Isaac settles against him more comfortably.

“Everyone was happy to see him alive and well,” Stiles continues, warmth softening his voice into something velvety and soothing that curls snugly around Derek’s heart. “The Pack took up a long, loud howl together to thank the moon for keeping their little lost pup safe and sound in the forest. _“I’ll never run away again,”_ the cub promised with a weary yawn as he curled up beside his Alpha. And then, even though the sun had already risen and the birds were starting to chirp their merry songs from the treetops, Jasper fell fast asleep.”

Scott makes an approving noise, reaching out to touch the final illustration. “Again?”

“Not tonight,” Derek declines softly (before Stiles has time to be coerced by Scott’s puppy-dog eyes; as it turns out, the lacrosse coach is an absolute _pushover_ when it comes to Derek’s kids), lifting a hand to brush his fingers through Scott’s hair and feeling the boy lean sleepily into his touch. “Time for bed, cub.”

The pup gives a low whine of protest, but doesn’t resist when Derek scoops him up effortlessly with one arm and stands, a child on each hip. Isaac’s already half-dozing against his shoulder, oblivious to everything, but Scott holds out a hand towards Stiles insistently until the human reaches up to tap his larger palm against the pup’s in a parting high-five.

“Night, Scooter,” Stiles’ murmurs, his smile warm and full of affection. “I’ll see you at practice on Monday, okay?”

Scott gives a sleepy smile in return and settles his cheek against his father’s shoulder.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Derek promises, carefully adjusting his hold on the pups. “Help yourself to coffee; you know where it is.”

And fuck, but isn’t that something? Having a guest over often enough that they know the layout of his kitchen as well as he does. Finding spare Tupperware boxes in his cupboards because Stiles always leaves him a full batch of something sweet when he comes over for dinner, and regularly forgets to pick up the empty containers next time. His freezer is filled with pies casseroles and lasagnes, none of which have been made by Derek, after the younger man pointed out how much easier it would be to make up recipes in bulk so that he always has something to fall back on if he ever needs to make dinner in a rush. His ice-pop drawer is bursting with little plastic zip bags filled with halved bananas and raspberries and strawberries, a ready-to-blend smoothie supply. And his fridge is stocked with reduced-sugar fruit juices that taste almost exactly the same as the brand Derek had previously been buying (only _‘a zillion times healthier’_ – Stiles had even used pie charts to illustrate his argument), and bottles of the unique Polish brand of beer that Derek has come to love.

Two weeks. Seven evenings together. That’s all it’s been. And yet, somehow, Stiles has managed to slot himself neatly into every aspect of Derek’s life; finding the empty spaces he hadn’t even known existed and filling them with light and warmth and happiness, making him feel _whole_ in a way he hasn’t done since he became an Alpha.

He’ll never get over the fact that Monday and Wednesday and Friday nights now have a new and wonderful routine that include a _significant other_. The sequence of events haven’t necessarily altered – dinner, games, bath time, story time, bed time – but Stiles’ presence has changed _everything._ His games are always unique and imaginative, somehow allowing the boys to burn off their post-meal sugar high without causing any significant property damage. He reads stories better than Derek ever could, using an impressive range of voices and accents to bring fairytales to life, rendering his audience enraptured. And by God, is Derek enraptured. Even when Stiles isn’t there, the place still smells like him, and his Wolf has cemented itself to that scent and given it a new name; _home._

“Daddy?”

“Mm?” he hums distractedly, tugging the duvet up over Scott’s shoulders and handing the pup his dinosaur plushie.

“I like it when Coach has dinner with us.”

Derek smiles, smoothing the boy’s fringe back to press a kiss against his hairline. “Me too, bub.”

Scott peers up at him hopefully, little arms winding around the cuddly stegosaurus. “I think Stiles likes it too,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” Derek asks, and feels a little foolish at the warm burst of happiness that the words induce.

The boy nods vigorously. “So…so maybe he should come _every_ day.”

However appealing that notion sounds, Derek knows just how busy Stiles’ schedule has become of late. He’s lucky enough already to have stolen the younger man away from his coaching duties for three evenings a week – Stiles now runs 7pm slots for high school kids on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays on top of his usual elementary and preschool sessions, an apparent favour for the coach at Beacon Hills High who’d first inspired the younger man’s career choice. The only day he seems to keep free is Sunday, and Stiles has already jokingly informed him that the Sheriff would have no qualms about handcuffing his son to the living room couch if Stiles tries to work on ‘Dad Night’.

“Stiles is a busy man,” he tells Scott, keeping his voice hushed so as not to wake Isaac, who’s already out for the count in his own bed on the opposite side of the room. “He has to go to work, remember?”

Scott’s brow creases in a little frown, but he dips his head in another nod. “Dad? How come you don’t go to work too?”

Derek gives an easy shrug. “Some daddies don’t go to work, like me and Uncle David,” he explains, referring to his sister’s mate. None of them had expected Laura to fall in love with an _accountant,_ of all people, but Dave had turned out to be a top-notch guy and a fantastic father, who’d been more than happy to give up his own career and be a stay-at-home dad instead.

“Yeah, I know, but…but do you _wanna_ go to work?” Scott presses hesitantly, eyeing him closely.

Derek pauses, the automatic ‘no’ catching on the tip of his tongue. _Does_ he want to go to work? If he’s being fully honest with himself, he _misses_ being a deputy. He misses the thrill of a high-speed car chase, the sense of achievement when a life is saved or a crime prevented; he misses his patrol partners, the easy banter and friendly teasing that would pass between them; he misses being part of Sheriff Stilinski’s team, being clapped on the shoulder at the end of the day and congratulated on a job well done, or comforted if things have gone sour.

Does he regret giving it all up to raise his children? Fuck no. His career as a deputy brought him satisfaction; being a father has given him a _purpose_ in life _._

“No,” he says at last, and leans down to bump his nose against Scott’s temple in a gentle nuzzle. “I like being your Dad more than any old job.”

Scott makes a soft noise of relief and throws his arms around Derek’s neck, stegosaurus and all, squeezing tightly. “I love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, buddy.”

Derek holds him close for a moment and finds himself blinking hard, a little overwhelmed by the renewed surge of fierce affection that wells up inside him at the pup’s words. God, he wants them to stay this young forever – sending them off to kindergarten at the end of summer is going to be absolute _hell._

 

…

 

Stiles is halfway through what Derek suspects is his second cup of coffee by the time the Alpha makes it back downstairs. He glances up from an age-creased copy of _The Druid Who Cried Witch_ , the corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile as he inches a little further along the couch to make room.

“Kids asleep?”

“Mm,” Derek confirms, sinking down against the cushions with a sigh.

He’s sitting close enough to Stiles that their knees and elbows are touching, but the younger man doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, as Stiles leans forwards to drop the book down on the coffee table and retrieve Derek’s mug, he even presses into the contact. And when he returns to his previous position, the touch is firmer, surer, and the brush of the man’s long fingers against his own when Stiles passes him the second mug lasts longer than necessity would demand.

But more than that, Derek can hear the sharp uptick of Stiles’ heartbeat. He can smell the change in the man’s scent – minor as it is – and his Wolf stirs in response, the hungry voice in the back of his mind growing louder and more insistent. _Mine,_ it says. _Home. **Mate.** _

The urges are nothing new. He’s been skirting around this sense of _something else_ since their first meeting, and there’s no denying what’s grown between them. Derek _knows_ Stiles is interested in him; it’s a mutual attraction. And eight months ago, he wouldn’t have made it past the second evening before giving into temptation and allowing his instincts to guide his actions. But it’s not just his own satisfaction he needs to consider these days. He’s a father, and an Alpha (albeit of a very small Pack) and regardless of what his mate-craving inner Wolf tells him to do, he has to put the boys first. That’s why he’s had to be so careful. That’s why he’s _waited._

But it’s been weeks, and Stiles is still here. Derek’s phone is full of texts from a number he’s come to know by heart, and his freezer is full of casseroles made by pair of hands that aren’t his own, hands that know _exactly_ how to make coffee the way Derek likes it, and for God’s sake, Stiles regularly reads _bedtime stories_ to his _children_. He knows it’s not a superficial interest.

“What?” Stiles is watching him, warmth and amusement in his expression, his lips twitching, and Derek realises he’s been staring at the man for an inexcusable length of time.

 _Nothing,_ he wants to say. _I was just thinking._ But what comes out of his mouth is a little off the mark.

“Do you want to go out with me?”

Stiles blinks at him, throat moving as he swallows, heartbeat shifting from waltz to a samba instantaneously. But his voice is steady when he replies, “Yes. Please.”

And the wave of relief that hits him is so fucking intense that Derek can’t quite hide the sudden, undoubtedly goofy smile that tugs at his lips. But Stiles is beaming at him in return, the expression bringing a new light to his eyes – and fucking hell, he’s so goddamn _gorgeous,_ Derek can’t think of doing anything except kissing him.

His still-full coffee mug hits the table with a decisive _thunk_ , and then he’s cupping that smooth, pale face between his hands, watching the enticing half-droop of Stiles’ eyelids as he leans in readily, which is all the invitation Derek needs to capture those soft, pale lips in a deep kiss. His Wolf preens, victorious, and the rush of _mine, ours, mate_ blends in with the upsurge of heat and passion as Stiles’ empty mug drops onto the rug with a dull _thud_ and long fingers curl into the fabric of Derek’s shirt.

Derek had certainly hoped for reciprocation, but Stiles raises the bar even higher and turns _demanding,_ his kisses hard and breathless and biting, his hands roaming over the Alpha’s chest, one curling over the side of his neck with the thumb against his carotid. Derek debates the appeal of pushing back for a short moment, of regaining control of the kiss and _taking_ his mate like he’d planned, but it’s only a fleeting thought. When it comes to Stiles, his Wolf is apparently all too happy to roll over and submit.

Maybe that’s just Derek’s influence, though. He’s certainly not complaining about the younger man’s _eagerness._ His skin feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending alive, heat filling his lungs with every breath and rapidly descending downwards to pool in his nether regions.

“Derek,” Stiles pants as they pause for air, forehead pressed against the Alpha’s, the frames of his glasses cool against the Werewolf’s burning skin. At some point the younger man has moved to straddle his lap – Derek can’t recall the exact sequence of events, only a rush of hands and lips and _lust._ “We should…we can’t…”

“Can’t what?” Derek asks, fingers skimming up Stiles’ abdomen beneath his shirt. It’s all lean, hard muscle, the skin impossibly smooth beneath his fingertips, and Derek wants to kiss _all of it._

“The boys,” Stiles insists, even as he threads his fingers through Derek’s hair and pulls his head back for another kiss. “What if they wake up?”

“They’re asleep,” Derek assures against the man’s kiss-swollen lips. “I’ll know if that changes. Besides,” he nips at Stiles’ bottom lip, eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins, “I’m sure I’ll find a way to keep you quiet if needs be.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow at him, his grin playful. “Is that so, Mr Hale?”

“Mm.” Derek kisses him again, then swallows Stiles’ yelp as he twists around and pushes his weight up on one knee to tumble the man down onto the couch beneath him. His thigh ends up between Stiles’ legs, and the man’s breathing hitches. _Gotcha._ “Any complaints, coach?”

The younger man abruptly wraps his legs around Derek’s hips and pushes his hands up beneath the Alpha’s t-shirt. “None whatsoever.”

 

…

 

It’s gone midnight by the time Stiles makes it to the front door.

His hair’s sticking up at odd angles, and there’s a sizeable hickie on the side of his throat above the collar of his shirt, and his clothes are creased, and the hem of his borrowed boxer shorts are peeking above the waistband of his pants, and Derek’s never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.

He’s sorely tempted to coax the man back inside and ravish him all over again, but Stiles has a 9am coaching session and Derek isn’t that much of a bastard. Instead he reaches out to smooth his fingers through the rumpled hair, taming into something that doesn’t scream _“I just had sex”_ quite so obviously, and leans in to brush his lips against the man’s cheek.

“I had fun tonight.”

“No kidding,” Stiles laughs, fingers circling lightly around Derek’s wrist where his hand rests on the man’s hip. “How about I let _you_ be the one to cream your pants next time.”

“You can try,” Derek offers smugly (he’s already decided that getting Stiles to come undone so spectacularly with friction alone is his greatest achievement to date).

Another laugh, closer to a giggle than anything, and Stiles curls his fingers in the front of Derek’s shirt to yank him into another kiss.

“Smartass.”

Derek just smiles. He seems to be doing a lot of that lately. Probably something to do with how fucking _happy_ he is right now.

“Do I really have to wait until Monday before I can see you again?” he asks plaintively as Stiles steps out onto the porch and pats down his pockets to check for his keys and phone.

Stiles leans in to brush another kiss against his lips. “I have a couple of hours to kill between twelve and two tomorrow,” he offers. “Maybe we could go out somewhere local? Take the boys to the park or something?”

“Picnic?” Derek suggests, his heart already warming to the idea.

The younger man positively beams at him, yanking him into a harder kiss by way of a reply. Derek melts into it, winding his arms around Stiles’ lean frame, uncaring of nosy neighbours who’ll undoubtedly be spying on him even at this time of night – this road’s predominantly populated by elderly folk, and his love life (or, up until now, lack thereof) tends to be a regular topic of conversation whenever he steps outside.

“Night,” Stiles murmurs, with a final peck to his cheek.

Derek lingers on the porch like he did that first night and watches until the car disappears out of sight. Then goes back inside the house and indulges himself in a short, private victory dance.

 

 

 

 

…..

 

 

 

 

“We’re not gonna have lunch with Grandma?” Scott asks, puzzled, but happily shoulders his little backpack of napkins and paper plates with the air of a kid who enjoys a change of pace every now and then.

Derek shakes his head, helping Isaac down out of his booster seat and locking the car behind them. “Not today, kiddo. We’re meeting up with a friend in the park, remember? That’s why we packed a picnic. You’ll get to see Grandma and Grandpa at dinner instead.”

“Okay,” the boy agrees cheerfully, hugging his soccer ball to his chest.

Derek dons his own rucksack full of goods (drinks and sandwiches and fruit and what’s left of the chocolate brownies Stiles had brought over the day before), and reaches for his children.

“Hands, please.”

Scott skips over to his side obediently, adjusting his hold on the ball so that he can grab onto Derek’s fingers, but Isaac remains glued to the spot, glancing worriedly between the car and the entrance to the park.

“Isaac,” Derek prompts gently, hand outstretched. “Come on, buddy.”

His youngest boy likes routine more than Scott does, and the surprise visit to the park in what’s usually ‘Granny and Grandpa’s’ slot has clearly knocked him off-kilter. Derek momentarily contemplates letting the cat out of the bag and revealing the true identity of their mystery guest, but Stiles had wanted to keep it a secret, and Derek’s reluctant to abandon the plan so late in the game, especially knowing how thrilled the boys will be when they discover the truth.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, as Isaac peels himself away from the side of the car and attaches himself to Derek’s leg instead, face buried in Grey’s fur. “It’s a friend you like very much, there’s no need to be shy.”

He still ends up carrying the boy, but that’s hardly an unusual occurrence when it comes to Isaac. Truth be told, it often feels strange _without_ that familiar weight braced on his hip, without the gentle tickle of Isaac’s curls brushing against his neck, and it’s not like the pup’s heavy by any stretch of the imagination.

He reaches the pre-arranged spot (close enough that they can see the duck pond at the bottom of the gentle grassy slope, but far away enough that he won’t have to fish the boys out of it when they get too excited) and sets Isaac down so that he can unfurl the rolled-up blanket and spread it out across the sun-warmed grass.

“Can we feed the ducks?” Scott asks eagerly.

“After lunch,” Derek promises, settling himself down on the large square of fabric to start unpacking the food.

Isaac promptly crawls into his lap and hugs one of Derek’s hands to his chest, and thus the Alpha is forced to continue the task left-handed while Scott runs in dizzying circles around the perimeter of the blanket, singing a song that seems to be mainly comprised of the words ‘ _picnic’_ , _‘dinosaurs’_ , _‘juice’_ and _‘ninja ducks’_. It’s both distracting and amusing enough that Derek doesn’t sense the man’s presence until Scott’s song cuts off abruptly with an elated shout.

“Stiles!”

“Hey!” the coach laughs, catching Scott up beneath the arms when the pup runs over to greet him, spinning around on the spot with the boy giggling in his grasp. “Hope you guys didn’t start without me?”

“You came for the picnic?” Scott asks, delighted.

“Sure, kiddo,” Stiles agrees, setting him down carefully and messing up his hair with a grin. “Your daddy invited me.”

Scott grabs onto Stiles’ hand and starts towing him back towards the blanket. “You can sit by me, Coach.”

“Thanks, Scooter,” Stiles drawls, sharing an amused glance with Derek. He leans over to brush a quick kiss against the Alpha’s cheek as he settles down on the blanket beside him. “Hey, sunshine.”

Derek knocks their knees together, but he can’t stop his smile from widening into a grin at the memory of what changed between them last night, of what they’ve _become._ Before Stiles, he hadn’t even entertained the thought of partnership, not with two boys to look after - not since his days as a rookie officer when romance was a cheeky fondle and a quick kiss at the back of a packed nightclub on one of his rare weekends off.

And now he has a _boyfriend._

Isaac wriggles to get out of Derek’s loose grip, his initial shyness gone now that he knows who their ‘guest’ is, and beams at Stiles with his arms raised expectantly. Stiles blinks at him in surprise for a moment, but recovers quickly and plucks the pup from his father’s lap with a warm smile.

“Hey, buddy,” he greets, giving Isaac a gentle squeeze when small arms wind around his neck. “Bet you weren’t expecting to see me, huh?”

Isaac shakes his head and pulls back enough to plop down in Stiles’ lap, peering up at him thoughtfully for a moment before reaching for the man’s glasses. It’s a familiar game, and Stiles laughs as he removes the black-rimmed spectacles, helping Isaac to perch them on his own, smaller nose. Isaac blinks, going cross-eyed for a moment as he tries to focus his gaze, before turning his head to grin at Derek, pleased as can be.

“Looking good, kiddo,” the Alpha assures him.

Scott finishes laying out the paper plates and napkins and plastic cups, sitting back on his heels to admire his work. “M’done, Daddy.”

“Good job,” Derek praises, and reaches into his rucksack to continue unloading the rest of the plastic containers.

“Alright! High five, buddy,” Stiles offers, extending a hand towards Scott, who slaps it enthusiastically. He sees the man wince and subtly flex his fingers as he lowers his arm, and reaches out to touch the back of his son’s neck gently.

“Not so hard, Scotty,” he cautions, rubbing his thumb against the skin there to soften the scolding. “We have to be careful when we work and play with other people, remember?”

It’s a familiar phrase, ingrained into the boys’ upbringing from the day they first moved in with Derek. With Wolf pups, it’s always best to start young, before puberty and hormones give them the strength and motivation to actually _do_ serious damage if they slip up. When they’d first come to him, Scott and Isaac had barely even understood the _concept_ of being different from other people. The only other individuals they’d known had obviously been Werewolves – Omegas, most likely – and nobody had ever bothered to educate them on the various types of people (Supernatural and otherwise) that existed out there in the big, wide world. Their previous caretakers had ensured that the boys new how to walk, talk and use the bathroom, and they had apparently deemed that sufficient. As before, Derek tries not to think about this too much. He inevitably ends up breaking something.

Scott quickly snatches his hand behind his back, eyes wide as he glances towards the coach. “M’sorry! Did I hurt you?”

Stiles shakes his head, smiling reassuringly. “I’m fine, buddy.”

“You’re not in trouble,” Derek murmurs, because Scott still looks like he might start crying if the wind blows the wrong way. He tugs Scott closer to sit beside him and tucks him under one arm, dropping a kiss against his hair. “It’s just important that you remember for next time, okay?”

Scott nods quickly, tense shoulders relaxing, and leans into his side as Derek spears a straw through the hole of a juice box and passes it down. The mood picks up again after that, and for a few minutes everyone contents themselves with eating (or, in Scott’s case, making a smiley face out of the food on his plate).

“So,” Stiles says after a short while, carefully halving one of Isaac’s sandwiches for him. “I notice we’re in the middle of a park. Lots of room for practicing things like throwing and catching. How about I give you boys a little extra coaching after lunch?”

Isaac nods so enthusiastically that his borrowed glasses fall off. Scott throws his arms in the air with a cheer and narrowly avoids impaling Derek through the nose with a carrot stick. And Stiles laughs so hard at the lot of them that he almost makes himself sick.

All in all, it’s a damn good picnic.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **New Story -** [ _Ain't Getting Any Younger_ ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3292358/chapters/7185560)

For those who requested a Jordan Parrish/Sheriff Stilinski how-they-got-together fic, the above link is for you. :) Also, if you enjoy Dom/sub universe fics or anything remotely cute and cuddly and mildly smutty, it might be of interest. 

More coming soon!


	4. Chapter 4

 

“So you finally asked him out, huh?”

Derek makes an admirable effort to swallow what’s in his mouth before he chokes on it, but there’s no hiding the way his heart lurches in his chest at the words. Laura smirks at him knowingly, an amused gleam in her eyes that doesn’t bode well for the whole ‘keeping Stiles a secret until the third date’ plan. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his family – quite the opposite, in fact – but he doesn’t want Stiles to have to deal with a small army of overprotective Hale siblings descending upon him if the coach suddenly wises up and realises he can do better than Derek.

Not that he’s expecting Stiles to break up with him out of the blue. But after Kate, Derek’s learned to be a little more cautious when it comes to matters of the heart.

The cat’s irrefutably out of the bag now, though. Conversation at the dinner table abruptly dwindles into silence as his gathered family turn to look at him. He feels heat creeping up into his cheeks as he reaches for his soda glass, glaring at Laura over the rim as he takes a sip to help force the food down.

“Asked who out?” his younger brother queries, looking only mildly interested; most of his attention is focused on the bearded dragon that’s perched contentedly on the boy’s shoulder. Unlike most sixteen-year-old’s, Nick’s never really shown any romantic inclination towards either gender, and has been Derek’s only ally in his family’s recent obsession with trying to hook him up with a compatible mate.

“Stiles,” Laura elaborates helpfully, tumbling out another ladleful of steamed carrots onto Jackson’s plate before her son can upend the entire tureen in his quest to serve himself. “Sheriff Stilinski’s kid.”

“Coach Stiles is the _best_ ,” Scott chirps around a mouthful of chicken. He’s got gravy on his cheek and mashed potato in his _hair,_ of all places, and he seems cheerfully oblivious to the enormity of the secret that he’s happily blabbing to the rest of the Pack. “He always comes over for dinner after practice. Daddy invited him to our picnic in the park today, and Stiles played hide’n’seek and then Daddy bought me an ice-pop and then Stiles helped me feed the ducks until Daddy fell in the pond and-”

“You fell in the _what?”_ Cora echoes, laughing, and Derek braces his elbow on the edge of the table and drops his head into his hand.

 _“Stepped_ ,” he corrects, the word muffled against his palm. “I _stepped_ in the pond. One foot, up to my ankle.”

“Why?” his nephew asks, puzzled. “Ponds are _wet,_ Uncle Derek.”

The Alpha sighs, ignoring his siblings’ sniggering. “Maybe I just really like ducks, Jackson.”

“Oh.” The seven-year-old shrugs, accepting the excuse, and returns his attention to his dinner.

Unfortunately, the rest of his family aren’t quite so easily distracted. And by the time the meal’s nearing its end, he’s willing to do just about _anything_ to stop the endless barrage of questions about his new prospective mate, which is why he finds himself promising his mother that he’ll bring Stiles along to the family barbeque this coming Friday.

It doesn’t stop the others from shooting him little sideways smirks for the rest of the evening, but he bears it with the grace of a younger brother who’d spent months teasing his siblings about their various relationships back when he was a teenager. What goes around comes around. Karma. Whatever.

Sometimes he envies the simplicity of Nick’s pet menagerie.

 ** _Hey_** _,_ he texts later that night, when the boys are in bed and he’s lounging in front of the TV with a plate of leftover brownies and a bottle of beer.

 _Hey yourself,_ comes the reply. _Missing me already? ;)_

**_Obviously. You sure I can’t steal you away tomorrow night?_ **

_Not if you still want a job to go back to in September. :P The dads both say hey, by the way. Uh, they kinda knows about us, I hope that’s cool with you? I’m crap at keeping secrets, and maybe you don’t remember, but Jordan does this thing with his eyebrows where he looks into your soul and yeah, I basically cave every time. Sorry. :/_

Derek sniffs a grin, taking another swig of his beer as he thumbs a reply, propping his feet up on the edge of the coffee table.

**_I remember the eyebrows. And don’t worry about it – my family kinda know about us too. It’s not like we told the boys it was supposed to be a secret, and you know what Scott’s like. My kid’s a talker._ **

_I’ve noticed. :P So, no 007 secret relationship after all, huh? Can’t say I ever had my heart set on playing a Bond Girl in the first place. Hey, does this mean I can kiss you in public now?_

**_I suppose it does._** Derek’s thumb hovers over the send icon, and after a brief pause he adds, **_Are you free Friday night?_**

_Nothing in the books so far. Why?_

**_My parents are hosting a family gathering,_** Derek types, choosing his words carefully. **_We always have a get-together on the last Friday before a full moon, it’s kind of a Hale Pack tradition. My mom’s invited you to join us, but don’t feel you have to just because we’re dating. She won’t be offended if it’s too much too soon._**

He waits on tenterhooks for the man’s reply, chewing on a loose bit of skin on the side of his thumb. 

_Dude, are you crazy? Of course I’ll come! I can’t wait to meet your folks. :) Do I need to bring anything? I’ll bake a few batches of something, obviously, but is there like a specific theme I need to know about?_

Derek finds himself grinning stupidly, warmth and affection and heady relief intermingling as one. **_No specific themes,_** he types back. **_But maybe try to avoid using nuts? Laura’s mate has allergies._**

Which is, in fact, a minor understatement. The first time Laura had brought David along to a family barbeque, the accountant had gone into full-blown anaphylactic shock after sampling a slice of Talia’s famous coffee and walnut cake. It was an act of divine intervention that Derek’s older brother had managed to swap his nightshift at _Haven_ last-minute; Adam’s skills as a Healer had kept the human alive long enough for the ambulance to arrive with adrenaline and hydrocortisone. Nuts have been permanently banned from family gatherings ever since.

_Oh, Dave, yeah. Almost killed him with peanut butter cookies once, but he insists it would’ve been a great way to die. Does everyone in your mom’s Pack have an affinity for baked goods?_

**_Pretty much. My parents met at a charity bake sale, so we all grew up with a healthy supply of homemade desserts._ **

_That’s sweet. (Pun intended.) :P My parents met when my mom accidentally hit Dad with her car._

**_Lovestruck, huh?_ **

_Oh. Oh, that was TERRIBLE, dude. Shut up, I’m not laughing, you’re laughing._

Derek grins again, swinging his legs up and over the cushions to recline along the couch horizontally. He’s been reading all the texts in Stiles’ voice, and he can picture the look on the man’s face even now, lips pressed together in a thin line and expression contorting as he tries not to laugh, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Derek wants to kiss him so fucking bad.

 ** _Wish you were here._** Oh God, that was sappy. Fuck. Maybe it’s the beer.

_Right back atcha, hotshot. And I’m all yours on Monday, I promise. Hey, do the boys like rocky road?_

**_I don’t know, actually. Can’t remember if they’ve had it before._ **

_Pretty sure that’s classed as criminal neglect, Derek._ Guess _we’ll just have to find out, huh? Anyways, regardless of how much I enjoy your company, it’s getting kinda late. And some of us are being dragged out fishing by the Dads at some ungodly hour in the morning. Please note – I’m not a fishing person. And I’m definitely not a morning person._

**_I’ll be sure to avoid the tackle shop when I go hunting for your Christmas present._ **

_Atta boy. Sweet dreams, honeybutt. <3_

**_Honeywhat?_ **

_Shhhh. Sleepy time. xxx_

Derek snorts and sends back a quick but heartfelt ‘ _goodnight, Stiles’,_ dropping his phone down to cradle against his chest as he smiles goofily up at the ceiling.

‘Twitterpated’, his eldest brother would call it.The smug bastard would probably recite the entire segment from _Bambi_ , the way Johnny used to when he was a college student and Derek was a lovesick teenager pining after the senior guys on his basketball team. To be fair, it had been an accurate assessment of the situation. The only reason he’d even gone to basketball try-outs to begin with was in an attempt to get noticed by hot guys, but in the end he’d fallen in love with the sport instead. And his massive crush on the senior players had puttered out fairly quickly after that – there was nothing cute about being known as the ‘basketball baby’ of the team for his entire freshmen year.

Besides, this isn’t some shallow teenage fling. Sure, he finds Stiles _extremely_ attractive, but there’s so much more to the man than his good looks. The way he laughs with his eyes; the way he gestures animatedly with those long-fingered hands whenever he gets particularly excited about something; the way he hums to himself when he’s cooking, hips shaking in a half-formed dance, beating out the song’s rhythm with his whisk as he makes pancakes the way the boys like them.

God. He’s so fucking smitten.

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

Looking after two boisterous pups is a terrifying business.

He doesn’t understand how human parents cope; his kids are so horrifyingly accident-prone, he’s pretty sure he’d exist in a permanent state of panic if it weren’t for their ability to heal almost instantaneously. Although perhaps the prolonged discomfort of a cut or a bruise that’s forced to mend itself over days or weeks serves as a more lasting reminder of the consequences of doing something dangerous. Scott and Isaac have yet to learn that lesson.

The boys are, for lack of a better word, _reckless._

Far too often, he’ll have left them alone for less than five minutes to go and take a phone call or check his emails, only to be called back running by a loud crash and a tearful wail. He’s lost count of the number of bumped heads and bruised knees he’s kissed. And those times where there’s _blood,_ fuck, it’s the stuff of nightmares.

“You know you’re not supposed to climb up there,” he chides, gently dabbing a dampened washcloth against the last of the drying blood on Scott’s face. “What were you thinking?”

His heart’s still pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribcage, the tendrils of terror only just beginning to recede, his Wolf’s hackles still raised. Having his pup held close in his lap helps to appease those fiercely protective urges somewhat.

“But there was a _squirrel,_ ” Scott insists plaintively, his voice wobbly and thick with tears. It had been long drop and a hard knock, and the boy’s understandably shaken by the memory of his recent scare. “I just wanted to say hi.”

Isaac nods against Derek’s shoulder, still hiccupping softly, his eyes wet. “There really _was_ a squirrel, Daddy.”

“I know,” Derek acknowledges, because the boys have never lied to him about anything before. And even if they’d wanted to, it’d be a fruitless attempt; he can hear their heartbeats. “But that’s not a good enough reason to ignore the rules. What have I told you about climbing trees when Daddy’s not there?”

Scott ducks his head, sniffling. “Not to.”

Derek rubs the pup’s back with one hand and curls the other arm around Isaac to draw the younger boy closer. “And why shouldn’t you climb trees?”

“S’dangerous?” Isaac supplies tentatively, cuddling into his side.

“That’s right,” the Alpha nods, and cups the side of Scott’s neck to bring the kid’s gaze up. “I don’t make rules to spoil your fun, kiddo; I make them to keep you safe. And you got hurt today because you didn’t listen to me.”

Scott’s eyes fill with tears again, his face crumpling. “M’sorry.”

Derek maintains the stoic parental front for all of three seconds before tucking the boy’s head beneath his chin, murmured reassurances falling from his lips in a familiar mantra as he draws both children close to his chest, nuzzling against their hair. He hadn’t seen Scott fall, but his Wolf had sensed the sudden spike of fear and he’d definitely heard the echoing _thunk_ as his pup hit the ground. In that horrible moment of silence that had followed, as Derek frantically sprinted through the house to reach the backyard, he’d envisioned every worst case scenario; broken limbs, ruptured organs, _death._ And when he’d seen the blood, God…

His heart might never recover.

Unfortunately, it’s not the first time Scott’s broken the no-tree-climbing rule (hell, it’s not even the fifth), which means Derek’s obliged to follow through with his previous threat and put the cub in time-out once he’s gotten over his fright. Disciplining the boys is still a difficult hurdle in his journey as a parent; although it’s gradually gotten easier to plonk the pups down on the dreaded ‘step’ or to sit cross-legged facing the corner, it still rips his heart in two every time he’s forced to walk away to the sound of their hiccupping little sobs.

“But I said _sorry,”_ Scot pleads, arms still raised (no doubt hoping to postpone his fate with another cuddle) as Derek straightens up and moves away, steeling himself against the ache in his chest. “Daddy, no, I _said_ I was sorry, I did!”

“Six minutes, Scott,” the Alpha repeats calmly, and resolutely strides back into the living room.

There’s a brief pause, then a soft, high-pitched whine cuts through the silence, quickly building itself up into a mournful wail. Derek winces, gritting his teeth against the urge to go and soothe the pup. Instead he slumps back down against the couch cushions, checking his digital watch every five seconds and urging time to move just a _little bit_ faster, God, he’s a fucking tyrant.

Isaac curls an arm around his leg, cheek pressed against Derek’s knee as he sits flicking through one of the picture-books Stiles had brought along last week (remnants from the coach’s own childhood, it seems), his plushie wolf held tightly against his chest and an unhappy look on his face. Neither of the boys like it when the other is being punished, which usually means double the tears for them and double the guilt for Derek, but he’s learned to bear it for short periods of time. Namely six minutes.

This time, however, Derek’s back out in the hallway after five and a half minutes, because he’s a pathetic sod and a pushover and it’s not like Scott will know the difference anyway.

He plucks the pup up from his dramatic sideways slump on the bottom step of the staircase, bringing him in close to nuzzle his flushed, tearstained cheeks.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, as Scott’s arms close around his neck in a hug that would threaten to cut off the average human’s airway. “You’re okay, kiddo. It’s all over now.”

The boys don’t exactly go from devastated to elated in the blink of an eye, but their tears always dry up fairly quickly once they’ve been retrieved from the dreaded time-out spot. And they’re unfailingly clingy afterwards (both boys, even if only one of them has been disciplined), pressing up against him or tugging on his arm or the back of his shirt in a silent request to be picked up. The Alpha invariably ends up sitting down on the couch and turning on the TV so that his pups can snuggle to their hearts’ content.

Derek’s certainly not complaining.  

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

The temper-tantrums, although infrequent, are always an event.

Perhaps it’s due, in part, to their infrequency that they’re so significant. On the whole, the boys are unusually obedient and attentive for their age, rarely choosing to deliberately defy him and certainly not with any malice of forethought. When they do act out, it’s often the result of overtiredness, which means that the vast majority of tantrums tend to occur late in the afternoon. Which is usually fine – Derek can handle a cranky pup, and generally the situation can be resolved with a cuddle and quick kip on the couch while he finishes making dinner.

Except today is Wednesday, so Stiles is supposed to be coming over at five-thirty (to potentially stay the night) and Derek still has to get the Den sorted out.

He strips the sheets from his king-size bed and bundles them into the washing basket to take back downstairs, mentally cataloguing all the chores he still has to do before Stiles gets here in an hour, and cursing himself for allowing the boys to cajole him into several games of tickle-tag in the backyard earlier that afternoon.

Suddenly his foot lands on uneven ground, which _moves_ beneath his weight, taking his legs out from underneath him, and his ass hits the unforgiving edge of the stair with a loud _thud,_ forcing the breath out of his lungs in a sharp hiss _._

A small toy car skitters down the staircase to land near its fellows at the bottom, and Derek clamps down on the initial swell of pain- and fear-induced frustration as he pushes himself upright again.

“Scott!” he calls, with a hint of warning in his tone. “I thought I asked you to tidy up your toys?”

“I did,” comes the immediate reply, and Scott pokes his head around the living room doorway to frown up at him, puzzled. “I moved ‘em, like you said.”

“I asked you to put them _away,”_ Derek reiterates, but reaches out to mess up Scott’s hair as he passes by, which takes the sting from his words. “Not leave them on the stairs. Someone might fall and hurt themselves.”

“Oh.” Scott shoots him a suitably contrite look and grabs onto Derek’s hand to hug it to his chest briefly. “Sorry, Dad.”

“It’s alright,” the Alpha reassures him with a brief, warm smile. The ache’s mostly gone from his bruised coccyx anyway. “But go tidy up for me, okay, champ?”

He continues on down the hallway and through into the kitchen, following Isaac’s familiar scent ( _baby shampoo, apple juice, Beta, **mine** )_ as he ducks through the side-door nearest the back wall and descends the short wooden staircase into the basement. His youngest pup has always enjoyed playing down here (it likely has something to do with the fact that he’d been partially raised in the cellar of that old, grotty Omega house Derek had rescued the boys from), but it’s looking less like something out of a horror film now that the Alpha has repainted the walls and decked it out in bright colours, with fruit-shaped beanbags and plastic bins full of toys and a little table and chairs for colouring. The boys have already dubbed it the ‘Play Den’.

Isaac’s sitting near the washer, the throw-blanket from the kid-sized couch draped over him like a cloak, a row of assorted animal plushies sitting around him in a semi-circle. The pup’s carefully feeding them one by one with a spoon and saucer from the plastic tea set.

“Hey, buddy,” Derek greets, propping the basket of laundry against his hip as he reaches down to smooth a hand over Isaac’s curls. “Having fun?”

The pup beams up at him in response and lifts the spoon invitingly. Derek obligingly sinks to his knees on the carpeted floor and slurps noisily from the utensil, earning himself a delighted giggle.

“It’s _magic_ juice, Daddy,” Isaac tells him keenly, as Derek feels behind him for the washer door and starts loading in the sheets. He’d love to give the boy his complete and undivided attention, but Stiles will be here soon and he still needs to put the casserole in the oven. No rest for the wicked.

“Magic juice, huh?” he echoes, suitably impressed. “Hey, is it gonna make me taller?”

Isaac giggles again and shakes his head, pouring more invisible juice from his teapot so that he can feed another spoonful to the large plushie duck sitting nearby. “No, it’s gonna make…it’s gonna…everyone has to be really _strong_ so we can go find the lost wolf pup.”

“Ah, I see.” Derek tosses a liquid soap capsule in with the sheets and switches the washer to the appropriate setting. _‘The Little Lost Wolf Pup’_ has quickly become a family favourite, and the boys present the age-worn book to him with hopeful looks at least every other night. “Is he lost in the deep, dark forest again?”

The pup shakes his head, his young face comically grim. “Scary cave,” he discloses. “With bats an’ stuff.”

“Better bring a flashlight,” the Alpha advises seriously, then shuts the door to the washer firmly and starts the cycle, pushing himself to his feet. “Why don’t you come and play upstairs for a little while, kiddo? It’s gonna get a bit loud down-”

He breaks off abruptly at the look of abject horror on Isaac’s face. The pup’s got a clenched fist pressed to his mouth, eyes wide and wet, his whole body tensed. Derek feels concern flare up inside him sharply as he drops down into a crouch and reaches for his child, the soft _whoosh_ of water in the washer drum filling the silence.

“Isaac?” he prompts, running a gentle hand over the pup’s curls again, his Wolf pushing against their bond to try and get a sense of what’s wrong. “Buddy, what is it?”

“Daddy,” Isaac whimpers, pointing towards the washer. “You…you put-”

“I know you don’t like the noise, baby,” Derek sighs, and carefully cups his hands over the boy’s tiny ears. “And I’m sorry I had to interrupt your playtime, but Daddy has chores to do before dinner. How about we go find Scott, huh? I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you search for the lost wolf pup.”

He expects the boy to sulkily oblige and lift his arms to be picked up. But that isn’t quite what happens.

Isaac’s face crumples, huge pearly tears tumbling over his lashes and cutting wet lines down his flushed cheeks as he throws his head back and _wails._

Derek’s so alarmed at the suddenness of it all he doesn’t know what to think, he just acts on instinct and pulls the crying child into his arms, tucking Isaac’s head beneath his chin and rubbing his back. But the boy doesn’t cling to him and settle like he usually does. Instead he starts flailing, bare feet kicking Derek dangerously close to a rather sensitive area, little clenched fists pounding against his chest.

“Isaac,” he chides, bewildered, and shifts his grip to hold the child sideways, bridal-style, to protect his nether regions from further abuse.

“Stop it! No! Stop!” the boy yells, the words garbled by tears and hysteria. “Turn it off!”

Hoping to lessen the cub’s distress by putting a bit of distance between themselves and the washer, Derek heads back up the stairs, a screaming Isaac arching and writhing in his grip like he’s auditioning for a role in _The Exorcist._ The Alpha nudges the door to the basement closed with his hip, leaning back against it until it clicks shut, adequately muffling the roar of the washer down below.

But Isaac doesn’t calm down. If anything, his hysteria only heightens, and Derek has to take a seat on the nearest dining chair so that he can anchor the boy down in his lap to keep him from hurting himself in his efforts to get loose, one arm wrapped snugly around the tiny waist and the other keeping his flailing arms locked in place, Isaac’s back pressed against his chest.

“Hey, come on,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek against Isaac’s curls and bouncing his knee to gently jostle the boy. “You’re okay.”

The kid just sucks in another shuddering breath and screams louder, banging the heels of his feet against Derek’s legs. The Alpha’s at a loss for what to do – it’s the first time Isaac’s thrown a tantrum quite like this. Sure, he’s had plenty of tearful breakdowns and a fair amount of banshee-like screaming fits, but he’s never been _violent_ about it. Derek’s just starting to contemplate the merits of flashing his eyes at the Beta to get his attention when he feels the stinging prick of _sharp_ _claws_ digging into the flesh of his arm.

Enough is enough.

He allows his Wolf to rise to the fore, his surroundings growing sharper and more focused as his eyes change colour, an almost-painful pressure building up in his gums and his jaw with the restraint it takes not to shift fully. And from deep within his chest rumbles a low, warning growl.

Isaac’s wail cuts off abruptly, the claws in his forearm disappearing as quickly as they’d come, the little body in his lap freezing mid-twist and then curling up, shoulders hunching as the pup tries to make himself smaller.

The Alpha takes advantage of his momentary shock to flip the boy around so that he’s sat facing Derek straight on. Isaac’s features have returned to normal – all except his eyes, which glow amber in response to the Alpha’s show of dominance.

“No, Isaac,” Derek scolds, enunciating clearly. “You don’t _ever_ hurt people like that. Do you understand me?”

Isaac stares at him, eyes wide, body quivering, and gives a frightened little nod. Satisfied that the pup’s been sufficiently chastised, his Wolf recedes again to curl up at the back of his mind, and Derek blinks his eyes back into focus as his surroundings return to normal.

Likewise, Isaac’s irises fade back to blue, right before his eyes pool with fresh tears and his face crumples anew. But this time he automatically reaches for Derek, both arms outstretched, tiny fingers making grabbing motions, and his cries are the deep, gut-wrenching sobs of an upset and repentant pup rather than the hysterical screams of a child throwing a temper tantrum.

“It’s okay,” Derek soothes, quickly pulling the boy against his chest, curly hair tickling his chin. “I know, I know, you didn’t like that. Shhhh. You’re okay, baby.”

“Daddy?” a tentative voice calls from the kitchen doorway, and Derek glances across to see Scott hugging his stegosaurus plushie to his chest, eyes wide and wet and worried. “Is Isaac in trouble?”

“Not anymore,” Derek replies softly, feeling suddenly exhausted. He stands with the sobbing Beta in his arms, rubbing the shivering back in soothing circles. “How about we all go sit down and watch some cartoons for a little while?”

Scott reaches up to grab onto the bottom hem of Derek’s shirt, trailing alongside him as the Alpha makes his way to the living room, side-stepping the finished jigsaw puzzle that Scott’s left out on the rug to show Stiles and settling himself down on the end of the couch nearest the TV remote.

Praise be to _Nick Jr_.

It takes twenty minutes of constant cuddling before Isaac’s tears finally taper off completely, the boy’s eyelids drooping as he snuffles against Derek’s chest. As the Alpha had predicted, the pup’s clearly overtired. He brushes a final kiss against the sweaty forehead and twists, carefully settling Isaac down on the couch cushions. The boy whines at the loss of contact, reaching for him sleepily, but Scott wriggles his way behind him and wraps both arms around his brother’s torso, pressing a loud kiss to the pup’s curly hair.

“S’okay, Daddy,” his eldest child reassures. “I’ll look after him.”

Something squeezes at his heart painfully, and Derek leans down to nuzzle Scott’s cheek tenderly, tugging the throw rug from the back of the couch over both his children. Isaac already seems to be half-asleep, exhausted from his earlier outburst and the crying jag that followed, and he’ll probably benefit from a short nap before dinner.

Cartoons and cuddle-time keeps the kids settled long enough for Derek to get the casserole in the oven, and the vegetables peeled and chopped and in the steamer, before the doorbell rings the signal their guest’s arrival.

“Hi.” Stiles is leaning up to kiss Derek before he’s even stepped through the door, his arms curling around the Werewolf’s broad shoulders. “Miss me?”

The Alpha murmurs the affirmative against the younger man’s lips, tugging him inside and pushing him back against the door to close it. They only have half a moment before one of the boys will wake up enough to realise that Stiles is here, and he intends to make use of every last microsecond.

“Coach!”

And there’s Scott.

Derek pulls away in time to avoid being bowled over by his eldest pup, who flings himself at Stiles with his usual enthusiasm.

“Hey, Scooter,” the man greets, smiling as he scrubs a hand through Scott’s dark hair. “How’s it hangin’?”

The six-year-old tilts his head back to peer up at Stiles, his expression growing uncharacteristically sombre. “Isaac’s sad. I don’t like it when he’s sad.” Then he latches onto one of the coach’s hands abruptly and starts dragging him down the hallway. “You can make him feel better!”

Stiles sends Derek a bemused glance, the slightest crease of concern forming between his eyes, and the Alpha shakes his head at the silent question and mouths _“tired”._ The younger man nods in understanding, allowing himself to be towed towards the living room. Derek means to follow them, but a sudden hissing from the kitchen has him darting quickly to the stove to remove the pan of green peas from the heat before they can boil over again, switching off the back ring. He checks the timer on the steamer and the oven, satisfied to see that they almost correlate (they might actually be able to have dinner on time after all, despite the numerous unexpected delays this afternoon), and decides to set the table while the boys are still sufficiently distracted. He can hear the murmur of their conversation through the walls – Stiles’ low, soothing tones and Scott’s high, excited babbling – but he doesn’t strain his hearing to pick out the exact words, relieved to have a moment of peace to himself without needing to worry about the kids. He _loves_ those boys more than life itself, but sometimes being a single dad is so goddamn _exhausting._

He’s just setting down a pitcher of water and a carton of juice when Stiles appears in the doorway, Isaac perched on his hip and squinting at his surroundings through the coach’s thick-framed glasses.

“Which way, buddy?”

Derek’s about to ask him what he’s on about, but it becomes clear a moment later that Stiles isn’t addressing him. Isaac points towards the door that leads to the basement, the fingers of his other hand clutching onto Stiles’ shirt tightly as he gives another hiccupping little sniffle.

“Gotcha.” Stiles adjusts his hold on the boy as he heads over to the door and pulls it open.

“Daddy?” Scott says tentatively from the living room.

Derek trails after the pair, bemused. “What are you doing?”

“Investigating,” the coach answers, cheerfully cryptic, and begins descending the wooden staircase into the ‘play den’. “We’ll be back up in a minute.”

“Daddy?” his eldest son calls, a little louder.

“Isaac doesn’t like the sound of the washer,” the Alpha warns, watching the six-year-old wince and cover his ears as Stiles makes his way downstairs.

“I know,” Stiles reassures, glancing back up at him with a quick smile. “We won’t be long.”

“Daddy, I’m stuck!”

Derek goes. When it comes to Scott, ‘stuck’ can have a wide range of meanings – anything from _‘my shoe is trapped in this cardboard box’_ to _‘I’ve wedged my head between the bannisters and now I can’t get out’._ He’s learned to always expect the unexpected when it comes to his eldest.

He finds Scott in the living room. Or, more precisely, Scott’s _feet._ They’re the only thing visible, _Spongebob_ grinning at him from the kid’s socks, as the boy huffs and grunts with exertion from his upside-down position down the back of the couch.

“I was tryin’ to get my truck!” the boy insists, his voice muffled, because crawling behind furniture has always been one of Derek’s big no-no’s. “Wasn’t climbing, Daddy, I promise.”

“I know,” Derek reassures, carefully lifting the pup upwards by his ankles until he’s free, then flipping Scott the right way up to catch him in his arms.

A small red fire truck is waved enthusiastically in his face. “See? I got it!”

“Good job,” the Alpha comments, amused, and sets the boy down when he starts to wriggle. “But maybe wait until Daddy gets here next time, okay? You could’ve hurt yourself.”

Scott nods, stuffing the truck in the pocket of his shorts and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Can I show Stiles my shark picture?”

“Sure, buddy.” He runs a hand over the boy’s dark hair. “See if you can find Grey for your brother while you’re upstairs; it might help cheer him up.”

The plushie wolf is Isaac’s constant companion, and it’s unusual for the boy to be without him for more than an hour at a time. Even if the pup’s just tired, it might help to stave off any further temper tantrums.

“Grey’s not upstairs,” Scott tells him, looking up at his father with a puzzled frown.

Derek raises his eyebrows. “He’s not?”

Scott shakes his head. “He’s-”

“Having a bath,” Stiles interjects from the doorway. He gives Derek a wincing sort of smile as he adjusts his hold on Isaac. “It was pretty muddy in that cave, so Grey decided to take a bath before dinner. Right, Daddy?”

“Right,” Derek echoes slowly, glancing between the coach and his youngest son, who looks as though he might start crying all over again.

And then Stiles’ words finally register, and all the pieces fall into place. He remembers bundling the bedsheets into the washer, half-distracted by Isaac’s talk of rescuing the lost wolf from ‘scary caves’; he remembers the look of abject horror that washed over the pup’s face the moment Derek had turned on the machine, the way his fit of hysteria had only worsened as he’d been carried further away from the washer.

Oh hell. He’s an _idiot._

“Grey’s having a bath,” he reiterates carefully, and Stiles nods in confirmation, his sympathetic wince deepening a little.

Isaac gives another tearful little sniffle, bottom lip stuck out in a miserable pout. “But it’s not a _Saturday,_ Daddy. Grey’s only s’posed to have bath-time on _Saturdays.”_

“I know. I’m sorry, baby,” Derek sighs, feeling horribly guilty about the whole thing. He reaches out to take the boy, and Isaac flops willingly into his arms, snuggling close. “You’re right, it’s not a Saturday.”

“But baths don’t last forever, right?” Stiles says encouragingly, wrapping an arm around Derek’s waist and smiling at the tearful pup. “And I bet Grey likes all the the bubbles.”

Isaac nods hesitantly, Stiles’ glasses slipping down over the end of his button nose. The coach catches them with impressively quick reflexes and lowers his hand to clean the lenses of sticky fingerprints on the hem of his shirt.

The oven timer goes off, signalling that the casserole is ready, and Derek is relieved to see that Isaac perks up significantly at the prospect of food. He kisses the boy’s cheek gently before stooping to set him down on the floor, and watches with a warm expression as Scott grabs onto his younger brother’s hand and drags him off to the downstairs bathroom to wash up for dinner.

“See?” Stiles says cheerfully, threading their fingers together and leaning in to brush a chaste kiss against the corner of Derek’s mouth. “Crisis averted.”

Slightly overwhelmed with gratitude, the Alpha turns to kiss the younger man properly, one hand settling itself at the small of his back as he licks into Stiles’ mouth. His Wolf’s stirs within him, delighted by the attention of his mate, pushing for Derek to kiss _harder,_ to show Stiles just how much he wants this, to make a _claim._ It’s difficult, but he manages to squash the urges back down again. If Stiles is game, there’ll be time for that later tonight once the pups are in bed.

“Okay. Wow,” the coach says, a little breathless, when they finally pull apart. “If that’s what I’m gonna get for fixing minor family disputes, I might have to start causing a few myself.”

“Shut up.” Derek kisses him again, feeling the answering smile against his lips. The oven timer’s still beeping away in the background, and he can hear the boys squirting soap at each other in the bathroom, but none of that matters. He’s in _love._

And damn it all to hell, he’s gone and forgotten to put fresh sheets on the bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter for all you lovely folk. Many thanks for your continuing support! <3 xxx


	5. Chapter 5

 

“We should probably get dressed.”

“Hn-nn,” Derek grunts sleepily, arm tightening around the human he’s spooning. “S’too early.”

Stiles sniffs a quiet grin, a long-fingered hand settling over Derek’s arm beneath the bedcovers. “The boys’ll be up soon.”

“Mm.” The Alpha keeps his eyes resolutely closed, brushing his nose against the back of Stiles’ neck and inhaling the musky cinnamon-spice of their combined scents.

“Derek,” his mate presses, amusement adding a gentle warmth to his tone.

“Shhhhsleep.”

Stiles rolls over to face him with a quiet laugh, and Derek cracks open an eyelid to peer at him groggily, his heart swelling at the open fondness in the man’s expression.

“You’re ridiculously adorable sometimes,” Stiles murmurs, the words a warm puff of air against his chin as he trails a slow line of kisses along the Alpha’s jaw.

Stirring a little from his fatigue-induced catatonia, Derek strokes his hand down the coach’s spine, tilting his head a little to capture his mate’s lips in a gentle kiss. Stiles arches into the contact, his fingers sinking into Derek’s hair as the wolf’s hand trails lower to cup the flesh of his naked backside.

“Derek, wait,” Stiles whispers, even as he hooks a leg over Derek’s to anchor their bodies closer together. “The kids-”

“Fast asleep,” Derek reassures. The sound of his pups’ even breathing is something he’s always carefully attuned to first thing in the morning, especially since he's acquired a new bedfellow.

Stiles, it seems, requires no further encouragement after that, and words are abandoned in favour of tangling tongues and clashing lips and groping hands and the tickle of breathy moans against flushed, sweaty skin as their bodies move together beneath the sheets.

“Okay, that…that was good,” Stiles pants a short while later, his voice strained as he lays boneless on top of Derek. He gives the Alpha’s left pectoral an uncoordinated pat. “Five stars. Good job.”

Derek grins, brushing the younger man’s sweaty fringe back from his forehead to press a kiss against the hot, damp skin. He still can’t quite believe that this is his life now. For the past few weeks he’s had the pleasure of waking up beside the man he loves, and together they’ve shared the joys and fears and pains of parenting, learning how to balance each other out, discovering the differences between them and finding a happy medium that suits them both. _Boyfriend_ has become _partner_ and _mate_ and _future husband,_ and Derek’s wolf has never been so content.

The thing is, Stiles is _everywhere._ He’s in the bright, quirky culinary gadgets that have steadily taken over Derek’s kitchen, and the Tupperware boxes full of homemade snacks that fill his cupboards; he’s in the ridiculous cartoon boxer shorts that Derek hangs out on the washing line, flapping at him distractingly in the wind while he does the dishes at the kitchen sink. He’ll find himself humming Stiles’ favourite songs, or fixing himself a cup of coffee the way his mate likes it, or turning up the volume on the TV to suit human ears when Stiles isn’t home.

He can’t even begin to imagine day-to-day life without Stiles being at the centre of it, and quite frankly it _terrifies_ him.

“Well, that’s not exactly what I would call your average post-coital glow,” Stiles remarks, smoothing his fingers over the crease in Derek’s forehead. He bumps his nose against the Alpha’s chin. “What’s with the frowny face, handsome?”

Derek’s lips kick up into an easy smile at the gentle touch, his doubts vanishing as quickly as they’d appeared. He cards his fingers through the human’s pillow-mussed hair.

“Sorry. I was miles away.”

“Glad I’m so invigorating,” Stiles drawls, and sits up so that he’s straddling Derek’s hips, the soft curve of his ass pressing against the Alpha’s crotch, which stirs again in interest. The coach arches an eyebrow in amusement. “No chance, hotshot. You’re gonna make me late for practice.”

Stiles swings himself out of bed with an alarming lack of grace, making Derek jerk out a hand towards him when his foot gets tangled in the bedsheets and he almost brains himself on the bedside table. He recovers admirably, however, and even manages to throw a sultry grin in Derek’s direction as he heads for the en suite bathroom, hips swaying with unnecessary (but much appreciated) vigour as he walks.  

“I wouldn’t say no to a quickie in the shower, though.”

Derek doesn’t fall out of bed in his haste to follow, but it’s a close call.

 

 

 

 

…………………………………….

 

 

 

 

It’s a little over two months into their relationship when the boys begin pushing the boundaries with Stiles.

It’s subtle at first – a delay in responding to a request, often requiring two or three repetitions before eventual compliance. Stiles is effortlessly patient with the pups, and his extensive coaching experience also means that he knows not to back down when met with stubborn resilience, an attribute that Derek greatly admires.

But Stiles has moved into the Den now. For the past two weeks he’s been a constant in the boys’ lives, and as such his position of authority has changed in their eyes, shifting from cool-coach-who-plays-games-with-us to parental-figure-who-puts-us-to-bed. And consequently the pups are beginning to take measures to test the extent of Stiles’ patience. It’s not a deliberate act of defiance, and the boys aren't misbehaving for the sake of it; they’re simply hoping to establish how far they can safely push their new human parent without getting into trouble. And moreover, how Stiles will react when they do overstep that mark.

“Food goes in your mouth, buddy,” Stiles reminds Isaac calmly when the pup drops another spoonful of pasta onto the floor (the third ‘accident’ in as many minutes), and Derek decides enough is enough.

He sends the boys out to play after dinner, watching through the kitchen window as they tear around the backyard energetically, buzzing from their post-dinner sugar high. Stiles is busy scrubbing at the casserole dish with a soapy cloth, bubbles from the sink clinging to his wrists, and Derek winds his arms around the coach’s waist from behind, kissing the shell of his ear.

“We need to talk.”

Stiles pauses in his scrubbing, and Derek can sense the spike of concern as Stiles’ heart makes an audible stutter.

“About what?”

“The boys.”

“Oh.” Stiles relaxes again, leaning back against him. “About their kindergarten tasters?”

Derek kisses his ear again. “No. About how they’re trying their damnedest to get a rise out of you.”

The younger man sniffs a grin and resumes scrubbing, soapy fingers squeaking against the dish. “I’m not gonna suddenly snap at them, if that’s what you’re worried about. I coach high school teens, remember? I have a pretty high tolerance for temper tantrums and rebellious petulance.”

“That’s the issue, actually.” Derek tightens his arms around the narrow waist in a gentle squeeze. “I think it’s time you and I starting singing from the same hymn sheet when it comes to disciplining the pups.”

The dish slips from Stiles’ grip and lands in the soapy water with a loud _splosh._ “Uh...”

“You’re a part of our family,” Derek continues quietly before he can lose confidence. “And the boys look up to you as an authority figure. They’ve been testing the boundaries for a little while now, trying to work out how far they can push before you react, and up until now I’ve always intervened when things have gone too far. It’s sending them mixed messages.”

“You want me to start disciplining your kids?” Stiles reiterates uncertainly.

“They need to know that you hold your own position of authority in the Pack,” the Alpha explains. “If they think that you defer to me every time they misbehave, they’ll never fully accept your authority when I’m not around, and with Werewolf pups that’s a potentially dangerous situation. The boys have good control over their shift, but it can still be triggered. You need to be able to force them to change back.”

“But you’re their Alpha,” Stiles insists, tugging off his rubber gloves and turning in Derek’s arms to look at him, his expression unsure. “And their dad. I’m just…”

Derek smiles a little touching the younger man’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Their other Dad?”

Stiles blinks at him, uncertainty bleeding to something a little more hopeful. “Is that really how they see me?”

“I’d call you their Momma, but I wouldn't want to insult your masculinity,” Derek murmurs, lips twitching.

“Fuck that, I’d make a great mom,” Stiles retorts, and leans in to steal a quick, chaste kiss. He sighs against Derek’s lips. “So no more Mr Nice Stiles, huh?”

“Nope.”

“And I really have to put them in time-out?”

“Yep.” Derek bumps his nose against Stiles’ cheek. “Welcome to parenthood. Sometimes it sucks.”

 

 

 

 

………………………….

 

 

 

 

“Scott, buddy, it’s time to put your toys away,” Stiles repeats.

Derek glances up from his book to peer across the living room towards them, sharp eyes cataloguing the stubborn set to Scott’s jaw and the way his gaze flickers up towards Stiles before skittering away again. He shifts his hold on a slumbering Isaac (the boy didn’t even make it to storytime this evening, tuckered out from an afternoon spent splashing around in the paddling pool outside).

Stiles shoots him a look that’s both resigned and mildly pleading, and Derek nods back encouragingly, feeling a sympathetic pang in his chest when Stiles takes a steadying breath and squares his shoulders, sinking down onto one knee to put him on level with the pup.

“Scott,” he says, calmly but firmly. “It’s bedtime. I’d like you to put away your toys, please.”

The boy’s fingers tighten around his plastic dinosaur, but he doesn’t make any other outward sign that he’s heard Stiles, his gaze still focused on his prehistory menagerie.

“One,” Stiles counts, and Scott twitches, suddenly looking unsure of himself. But he remains immobile. “Two.” The coach presses his lips together, pausing for a long moment, clearly hoping that the pup won’t push him all the way tonight. “...Three.”

To the man’s credit, he doesn’t hesitate. Standing, he reaches down and lifts Scott into his arms, striding from the room determinedly. The boy sends Derek a wide-eyed look, clearly stunned by this new development, but the Alpha resolutely stays in his seat. If this is going to work, they need to do it as a team. 

“Stiles?” the pup asks nervously, and Derek hears the sound of a little body being set down on the stairs out in the hallway.

“Time out, Scotty,” the coach replies, in a voice that only wobbles a little bit. “I asked you to put away your toys, and you decided to ignore me instead. So you’re gonna sit here and think about things for a little bit.”

“I’ll tidy my toys,” Scott says hurriedly. “I will, I promise!”

“That’s good,” Stiles tells him. “I’m glad to hear that, buddy. You can come tidy your toys away as soon as you’re done with time-out. Six minutes, okay?”

The sound of his footsteps grows closer and a moment later Stiles re-enters the room, a pinched look on his face as he moves over to the couch to take a seat beside Derek. The Alpha frees up an arm to wrap around his mate’s shoulders, pressing a kiss against his hair as Stiles flinches at the first tearful whine echoing back from the hallway.

“I’m sorry! Stiles! I’m sorry!”

The coach drags a hand down his face, swallowing, his eyes tellingly bright as he tilts his head back against Derek’s arm to stare morosely at the ceiling. Scott’s whines transcend into full-on wailing after half a minute, and Stiles drops his head into his hands again, elbows braced on his knees as Derek rubs his back. Ten months into adopting the pups, and it still kills him to punish them, so he knows how rotten Stiles must be feeling. His own first attempts at discipline at been pitiful, looking back on it from a more experienced perspective. Some of those time-outs hadn’t even lasted a full minute.

However, with admirable fortitude, Stiles stays resolutely planted on the couch for the full duration of Scott’s six-minute imprisonment. Although he’s up and striding towards the door the moment the last second ticks by, and Derek listens with a quiet, tender sort of smile as the younger man rushes to gather Scott into his arms.

“It’s okay,” the coach soothes, as Scott’s crying tapers off into hiccupping little sobs. “You’re okay, buddy. You did so good.”

It takes longer than usual to calm the cub down, and Scott clings to Stiles like a limpet the whole time, sniffling tearfully into the man’s neck. Eventually the coach pulls out the well-loved copy of _The Little Lost Wolf Pup,_ sitting down with Scott in his lap and rubbing the boy’s back as he quietly reads aloud. By the time Jasper is reunited with his Pack, Scott’s curled up against Stiles’ chest, thumb in his mouth, staring at the illustrations with sleepy, red-rimmed eyes.

“The end,” Stiles concludes softly, and closes the book. He gives Scott a gentle squeeze. “You ready for bed, buddy?”

Scott tilts his head to blink up at him, thumb slipping from his mouth, his expression uncertain. “Are you mad at me?”

“What? No, of course not.” Stiles carefully brushes the boy’s fringe back, pressing a kiss against his hairline. “I was never mad at you, kiddo.”

Scott’s bottom lip wobbles again. “But you gave me a time-out.”

“Because you didn’t listen to me,” Stiles reminds him, his tone patient. “I love you, buddy, but when Daddy and I ask you to do something, we need you to do it. Okay?”

The pup nods, tucking his thumb back into his mouth and resting his head against Stiles’ chest sleepily. Derek doesn’t have the heart to point out that Scott technically still hasn’t tidied away his toys – it’s been a hard night for the boy, and he already looks one slow blink away from falling asleep.

Standing with Isaac in his arms (the exhausted pup somehow managed to sleep through the whole ordeal with barely a twitch), Derek nods towards the doorway.

“I think it’s time we put these two to bed, don’t you?”

Scott winds his free arm around Stiles’ neck as the coach follows suit, and they quietly trudge upstairs with their slumbering burdens, tucking them into bed with care. Scott wakes up enough to demand a cuddle from Derek when he’s done snuffling at Stiles, and the Alpha nuzzles at the boy’s cheeks as he tucks the blanket tighter around him, well aware that the pup will only kick it off and starfish on the bed the moment he drops off. But it’s still part of the boys’ bedtime routine, and Derek values consistency in his parenting methods.

They retreat to the master bedroom, where Stiles promptly pitches down face-first onto the bed with a quiet groan. Derek moves to sit beside him, rubbing between his shoulderblades.

“You did good,” he reassures. “First time I put Scott in time-out, I caved after a minute and cried as much as he did.”

“Mnnn. Please tell me it gets easier the more you do it.”

Derek leans down to kiss the back of his neck. “A little. Although I still feel like a tyrant every time.”

With a pained groan, Stiles drags a pillow over his head and attempts to drown himself in the duvet.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! More coming soon. :) xxx


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

Derek catches the flicker of movement in the rear-view mirror and glances back at his children briefly as the car slows to a halt at the stoplights.

“Not in the car, champ,” he chides. “Wait until we get to Grandpa John’s house, okay?”

Scott drops the bouncy _Avengers_ ball onto the seat beside him and whines, “But I’m _bored_.”

“Why don’t you play with your trucks?” Stiles suggests, half-turning in the front passenger seat to smile back at the pup. “Want me to fish ‘em out for you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Derek prompts, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he waits for the lights to change.

“Yes please,” Scott amends quickly, and Derek flashes a brief smile at him in the mirror before putting the car into gear as the vehicles in front of him start to inch forwards.

“Oh, hey, take a left here, babe,” Stiles advises, glancing up briefly from the contents of Scott’s _Power Rangers_ backpack. “It’ll be quicker if you cut through Western Avenue. Trust me, you wanna avoid the traffic on the main road at this time of day; it’s like Walmart on Black Friday.”

Derek makes the turn smoothly, shooting his partner a sideways glance. “Are you _sure_ your parents are okay with babysitting? They didn’t exactly get much of a heads-up.”

Stiles snorts, amused, twisting in his seat to pass a set of miniature toy trucks back to Scott. “C’mon, a chance to have the boys to themselves for the night? Pretty sure my dads are more excited than the kids.”

The Alpha nods, his guilt dissipating somewhat. Stiles is right, of course – John and Jordan have embraced the role of impromptu grandfathers with as much enthusiasm as Derek’s own parents, and Sunday dinners at the Stilinski house have quickly become a weekly occurrence. Today will be the first time, however, that the boys have stayed with the Sheriff on their own without both Derek and Stiles in attendance, and Derek can’t help but feel guilty about imposing on them like this, all for the sake of dinner reservations.

Originally, they’d made plans for the boys to stay with Laura and David for the night, but his sister had phoned earlier that afternoon with the news that Jackson had come down with a sudden case of Lyra-pox. Derek vividly remembers his own experience with the virus as a child, and while his heart goes out to his nephew (and he’d be over there in a heartbeat to cheer him up under different circumstances), he has to think about his own kids. While it’s unlikely they’ll be able to avoid catching the ‘pox indefinitely, he fully intends to keep the boys away from it as long as possible, so cancelling the planned sleepover had been an unavoidable necessity. With his own parents out of town on Pack business, and the rest of his elder siblings already committed to prior obligations, the Stilinski’s had been their only remaining option if they still wanted to have the night to themselves.

“Maybe we should pick them up after dinner,” Derek suggests quietly. “That way they won’t have to spend the night.”

Stiles shakes his head, reaching across to flick the back of his hand gently. “You’ll spoil it for the kids, Der. It’s supposed to be a sleepover. And like I said, Dad’s more than happy to look after them. Jordan’s shift finishes in a couple of hours, so he’ll be home in time to help chivvy the boys to bed. They’ll be _fine.”_

“Are we there yet?” Scott bemoans from the backseat.

“Five more minutes,” Stiles promises, zipping the rucksack closed and setting it down between his feet. He gives a sudden twitch, then glances over his shoulder again. “Isaac, baby, don’t kick the seat, please.”

The pup glances up from his picture book, shamefaced. “Sorry.”

“Ooh, doggy!” Scott blurts, abandoning his trucks in favour of pressing his hands against the window as they drive past a young couple walking their St Bernard. “Dad, can we pet him?”

Derek shares an amused glance with Stiles. “We’re in a car, buddy.”

“I didn’t see the doggy,” Isaac protests. “No fair. Your head’s too big, Scotty.”

The elder pup turns away from the window with a wounded expression. “No it’s not!”

“Uh-huh!”

“Is _not!”_

“Why don’t we play a game?” Stiles suggests cheerfully, smoothly intervening before the argument can escalate to a point where Derek would need to stop the car and have _words_. “I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with ‘c’.”

Derek reaches across to squeeze his partner’s knee, sharing a quiet smile with him as the boys forget their quarrel and start listing off words at random, very few of which actually began with the letter ‘c’. Stiles’ long fingers settled over his own in a brief squeeze, and warmth swells in Derek’s chest as he turns his gaze back towards the road…just in time to see a delivery truck swerve across from the opposite lane to avoid a motorcyclist and come speeding at them head-on.

He slams on the breaks with enough force to lurch him forwards in his seat, the truck’s wheels screeching as its driver does the same, but it’s only enough to slow the collision down by a fraction of a second.

The truck hits them in a deafening cacophony of crunching metal and shattering glass. Derek barely has chance to register Scott and Isaac screaming from the backseat before the airbag explodes in his face, a sudden and painful force that leaves his head spinning and his ears ringing as the car spins on its axis, jerked to the side by a second collision from behind.

And then everything goes eerily silent.

“Scott?” he gasps, his face throbbing, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth from biting his tongue. “Isaac?”

There’s a beat of agonising silence, then an answering tearful whimper from the seat behind him, followed seconds later by an echo from the other backseat passenger. And _fuck,_ Derek’s so relieved his heart feels like it might burst from his chest.

“It’s okay,” he reassures, despite the way his head’s still spinning and the fact that his voice sounds hoarse and uneven. “It’s alright, Daddy’s here. Just sit tight, okay?” He turns his neck carefully to the side, mindful of the ache there suggestive of newly-healing whiplash. “Stiles?”

Nothing.  

 _Oh god._ He fumbles blindly to unfasten his seatbelt, blinking past the swirling dots in his vision and pushing at the airbags to deflate them as he leans across the gap between their seats to cup his partner’s face. Stiles’ eyes are closed, blood a stark scarlet stain against his pale skin as it leaks from his nose and the cut above his eyebrow. The lenses of his glasses are cracked and his shirt is dusted with crystals of glass from the shattered window, and he remains utterly, horribly still.

“Stiles?” he calls again, trying futilely to hear the man’s heartbeat past the high-pitched ringing in his ears. He fumbles with trembling fingers to find the man’s carotid pulse, exhaling shakily when he feels it throbbing there, strong and regular.

“Daddy,” Scott whimpers from the backseat, and Derek’s attention quickly snaps away again, his gaze flitting to the two pups still secured in their cartoon themed car-seats.

“I’m here, it’s okay,” he repeats, twisting with a wince to ease his way between the two front seats, kneeling on the floor and reaching for his children. They’re both crying, cheeks red and tear-stained, eyes glowing amber, but they seem otherwise unscathed. Thank god.

He unfastens them from their car-seats with hands he keeps from shaking through sheer willpower, crushing them to his chest in a brief, tight hug to satisfy his own overwhelming Alpha instincts to keep them near, keep them _safe._ Then he sets them back down in the middle seat, brushing kisses against their cheeks as they whine and try to cling to him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, prying their hands away gently. “But I need to look after Stiles, okay?”

Scott blinks at him through tear-filled eyes, head cocking to one side as his nose wrinkles, before his gaze flits fearfully towards the front passenger seat. “He’s bleeding!”

“I know.” His voice cracks, and he swallows past the painful lump building in his throat as he moves back through the gap between the front seats to check on his partner, cupping Stiles’ face gently to keep his head immobilised. “Stiles, c’mon, come back to us. Stiles!”

Isaac gives a hiccupping little sob, clinging to his brother. “Why’s he sleeping?”

“Joe’s called 911,” says a woman’s voice says suddenly. A dark face appears in the gaping arch of the shattered window, a sandy-haired man standing just behind her, and Derek realises it’s the young couple with the St Bernard they’d passed by only moments before the crash. “There’s an ambulance is on its way. Do you need any help?”

Derek nods towards the pups in the backseat. “My kids, they…could you-?”

“We’ll stay with them,” the stranger promises, as her partner slides the backdoor open. Isaac whimpers, shying away from the man as Scott wraps his arms around the younger boy protectively.

“It’s alright,” Derek soothes. “They’re just gonna help you out of the car, okay? Daddy needs to stay in here and look after Stiles for a little bit, I won’t be far away.”

Isaac starts crying again, but he allows himself to be scooped up by Joe, Scott curling his hand into the woman’s and sliding out after them. Derek keeps his gaze on the small group long enough to see them settle on the sidewalk nearby, where Isaac immediately latches onto the St Bernard who’s waiting there patiently, burying his face in the dog’s fur.

“Nngh. Der’k?”

His eyes snap back down towards his partner’s face as Stiles stirs, bloodstained brow creasing in a pained grimace as his eyelids flutter, shoulders shifting against the seat.

“No, no, stay still,” Derek tells him quickly as the coach’s head twitches. “Don’t move your neck.”

The younger man immediately stills beneath him, opening his eyes to a groggy squint. “Der? Wha’s wrong?”

Derek puts on what he hopes is a convincingly calm and reassuring expression. “We were in a car accident; you got knocked out.”

Stiles’ eyes widen suddenly, lips parting as he sucks in a ragged gasp. “The kids-!”

“They’re fine,” he reassures, with a smile that probably looks as shaky as it feels. “Scared half to death, but they’re not hurt.”

The coach’s gaze flickers down to Derek’s mouth, his expression pinching. “You’ve got blood on you.”

Derek chokes out a laugh, because the only sensible alternative would be to start crying. “You’re one to talk.”

“Shut up,” Stiles grumbles, eyes closing again. “I look fuckin’ _gorgeous_ an’ you know it.”

“Hey, hey,” Derek readjusts his hold on the younger man’s jawline, tapping an index finger against his cheek. He can hear sirens in the distance, at least two vehicles rapidly approaching. “Stay with me.”

“M’not goin’ anywhere,” Stiles promises, but his words are slurring alarmingly and his eyes are still closed. “You’re stuck with me f’good, Hale.”

“Damn right I am.” There’s a crowd gathering around the cluster of vehicles, but he only spares a brief glance towards the sidewalk to make sure his boys are still safe before returning his attention to Stiles. “Looks like we’re gonna have to reschedule those dinner plans, huh?”

Stiles’ lips curl up at the corner briefly, until it tugs too much on the fresh split, a bead of blood trickling down his chin. “Rain check?”

Derek nods. “You got it.”

The sirens have stopped now, and there’s a telling crunch of tires on asphalt as the vehicles pull to an abrupt halt nearby, the slam of multiple car doors and the fast approach of booted feet. Derek lets himself breathe easy for the first time since the crash, knowing that Stiles will soon be safely strapped to a stretcher and on his way to Memorial Hospital.

“Aw hell, kid,” comes a familiar voice from his left, and suddenly Jordan Parrish-Stilinski is sticking his head through the passenger door, smelling like worry and concern and that static-electricity-cinnamon-burn thing that’s uniquely _Phoenix_. “Not again.”

“Hey, Pops,” the younger man greets, cracking an eyelid open to peer sideways at him.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, buddy,” the deputy chides, his voice calm and full of easy affection. “I was due to clock off in a couple hours, you couldn’t have waited ‘til then?”

Stiles’ lips pull into another groggy grin, despite the oozing cut. “Figured it’d probably been a slow day for you, old man. Thought maybe you’d appreciate seein’ some real action.”

“Thoughtful of you.” Jordan opens the back passenger door and climbs into the car, carefully placing a hand either side of Stiles’ head from behind to immobilise him more effectively. “Alright, kiddo, give me the lowdown. What hurts?”

“Head,” Stiles mumbles. “Neck. Right shoulder. An’ I think I sprained my wrist when the bag blew.”

Derek’s fingers immediately slide down to the offending limb, black veins trailing up his arm as he leeches the pain away carefully. Some of the tension leaves the younger man’s posture.

“Mm. S’better, thanks.”

“You’re gonna have a couple of shiners tomorrow,” Jordan sympathises, before his gaze flits briefly over Derek’s face and torso. “Hey, you alright, man? Looks like you took a bit of a knock yourself. Do you remember what happened?”

Derek nods, slowly relinquishing his grip on the coach’s arm to hold his hand instead. “The truck swerved to avoid a motorcycle, came at us head-on. There wasn’t enough time to break; guy must’ve been doing fifty at least. And then we got slammed by whoever was behind us, they spun the car around almost on a three-sixty. Stiles took the worst of it, he was out for a couple minutes at least.”

“And the boys?” the Phoenix prompts, as calm and professional as ever, even as his gaze cuts across towards the sidewalk and the crowd of people gathered there around the two children.

“Shaken up, but otherwise okay,” Derek answers. Now that help has arrived, he feels a renewed surge of protectiveness urging him to gather his pups close and shelter them from the group of strangers outside, to soothe their fears with his scent and his touch. But then Stiles is _hurt,_ and injury is something no wolf ever truly grows accustomed to, so he feels horribly torn between his mate and his children.

“Go sit with your cubs,” Jordan tells him, as though reading his mind (given that he’s a Phoenix, it’s entirely plausible). “We’ll be alright in here, won’t we, kid?”

“Mm, peachy,” Stiles quips, and gives Derek’s arm an uncoordinated pat. “Go, Der. I’m fine. I’ll feel better knowing the boys aren’t on their own. Please?”

It’s the please that does it. Derek nods, kisses the back of Stiles’ knuckles, and ducks out of the car before he can change his mind.

 

 

 

 

………………………………

 

 

 

 

An undiscernible amount of time later, Derek finds himself sitting in the family waiting room at Memorial Hospital with Scott and Isaac curled up against his chest, fast asleep.

It feels like hours since he last saw Stiles, but he knows his mind’s just playing tricks on him. It’s likely been forty minutes at the most since they wheeled the coach away to be x-rayed and stitched up and glued back together – and goodness knows what else – leaving Derek alone with two tearful pups and one hell of an adrenaline drop.

His ears are still ringing, but he thinks that might be the high-pitched buzz of the light fittings. He’s already decided he dislikes hospitals immensely. They smell of hurt and pain and death and grief and fear and _chemicals;_ nothing like _Haven,_ the supernatural medi-centre that caters to those of non-human origin. Everything here too loud and too bright and too _much,_ and Derek realises now why the Were-folk who work at the police station never get given interview assignments at human hospitals. More than half an hour in this place would be enough to drive someone with enhanced senses out of their fucking _mind._

He doesn’t even know what time it is anymore. The clock on the wall above archway has been ticking at twenty past three ever since they got here, so clearly it’s not to be trusted, and his cell phone’s still in his back pocket where he’d shoved it hurriedly after leaving a somewhat garbled message on the answer machine at his folks’ house. He can’t actually remember his exact words, but he’s fairly sure he at least managed to fit ‘car crash’, ‘Stiles’ and ‘hospital’ in there somewhere. They’ll get the gist of it.

“Derek?”

It’s John Stilinski. Derek’s never been so relieved to see anyone in his entire life, although that relief is marred somewhat by the shadow of guilt still clinging to him. Even so, he manages to muster up a half-convincing smile as the Sheriff crosses the waiting room towards them.

“He’s okay,” the Alpha reassures. “They wouldn’t let me go with him to get scanned, but last time I saw him, he was shamelessly flirting with all the nurses and talking the doc’s head off.”

John cracks a smile that’s half fond, half concerned. “Doesn’t surprise me.” He claps a hand down on Derek’s shoulder. “How are you holding up, son?”

“I’ve had better days,” Derek admits, arms tightening around his children subconsciously. “It’s one thing responding to RTA calls as a cop, you know? Being in one shows things from a whole new perspective.”

The Sheriff runs a gentle hand over Isaac’s curls, then cars his fingers through Scott’s darker hair, his expression tender. “Are they alright?”

Derek nods. “Might be a little while before they willingly get back into a car, though.”

“Anyone here for Mr Stilinski?” a nurse calls from the doorway, clipboard in hand, glancing around at the few semi-dozing occupants before settling her gaze on John with a bright smile. “If you’d like to follow me, Sheriff, I’ll take you to him.”

John straightens, takes a few steps in her direction, then pivots again abruptly and moves back towards Derek, taking a seat on the padded bench beside him and opening his arms expectantly. The Alpha blinks at him, confused.

“I’ll watch the boys while you go check on Stiles,” John offers calmly, already reaching to slide Scott from his lap with the ease of someone who’s had years of parenting experience. “He’ll be happier to see you than me.”

Derek means to protest, he really does, but secretly he’s just so fucking _relieved._ The idea of waiting even a moment longer in this god-forsaken family room with its buzzing light fittings and broken clock is downright _abhorrent_ , and if John’s offering freely, it seems stupid to try turning him down.

So he sends the man a grateful smile and carefully passes Isaac over to join his brother. The pups both stir, noses wrinkling at the new scent that’s distinctly not Werewolf, and Scott’s eyes even crack open a peep to assess his new carer before he snuggles closer and buries his nose in the collar of John’s shirt, fists curling loosely in the fabric. The Sheriff cradles the pups close carefully, like they’re something precious, and nods towards the exit.

“Go,” he insists, his voice hushed now. “We’ll still be here when you get back.”

Derek’s always admired John Stilinski, and as far as father-in-laws go, he really couldn’t get a better deal. But at that moment Derek could seriously _kiss_ the man.

With a fervent promise to return as soon as he’s able, he follows the nurse out of the waiting room and along the corridor, inhaling deeply as he picks out Stiles’ familiar scent amongst the somewhat overwhelming _hospital_ smell, quickening his pace as it grows stronger until finally he turns into one of the short-stay siderooms and Stiles is _there._ Pale and tired and covered in freshly-cleaned cuts and darkening bruises, but alive and comfortable and _smiling._

“Hey, handsome,” Stiles drawls, and Derek assumes they must’ve given him the good stuff, judging by the slightly drunken slur to his words. “Come to bust me outta here?”

“Not quite.” Derek takes a careful seat on the edge of the bed, eyeing the splint strapped to Stiles’ left wrist and the thin line of stitches above his eyebrow. “So you managed to lose the neckbrace, huh?”

“Mm, thank god,” Stiles agrees, linking his uninjured hand with Derek’s and weaving their fingers together. “Fuckin’ uncomfortable contraption. But yeah, x-rays came back all clear. Nothing broken, just a couple of sprains and strains and some downright gorgeous bruises.”

He shifts with a wince, and allows Derek to reposition the pillows behind him until he’s found a more comfortable position, relaxing back against the bed. “The kids okay?”

Derek nods. “They fell asleep a little while ago. Your dad’s got them.”

Stiles’ gaze flickers towards the clock on the wall. “It’s getting late; you should take ‘em home to bed. Dad can drop me off in the morning.”

“In a little while,” the Alpha concedes, running the fingers of his free hand through Stiles’ hair to spike it up at the front the way he likes it, trying not to think about it when his nails catch against some dried blood in the strands.

“Hey.” The coach tugs on Derek’s hand, his expression understanding. “It’s alright. Accidents happen, it’s no big deal.”

“You were unconscious,” Derek reminds him, and is proud of how even his voice sounds. “For a moment I thought you’d…” He exhales a sharp sigh through his nose, fingers tightening around Stiles’ good hand. “You scared the shit outta me.”

“I know.” Stiles squeezes back, his smile lopsided and almost guilty in appearance. “But I’m okay, Der. They’ll keep me in overnight for observation, but I’ll be out first thing in the morning.”

The younger man’s expression turns coy. “So, do I get a kiss now that I look a little less like something off a horror movie set?”

“Maybe.” Derek’s lips twitch up at the corner, despite the lingering ache in his chest. “If you ask nicely.”

Stiles flutters his lashes with exaggerated allure. “Please?”

With a smile, he cups the man’s face gently with his free hand, leaning down to press a gentle, lingering kiss to the side of Stiles’ mouth, avoiding the still-healing cut on the bottom lip. Stiles makes a noise of protest and movies his head to the side a little to kiss him properly, fingers tightening around Derek’s.

“You’re gonna make your lip bleed,” Derek protests, but it’s a half-assed attempt at best, and he allows himself to be tugged into a second kiss easily enough.

“Worth it,” Stiles tells him smugly when they finally part, carefully swiping at his lower lip with his tongue.

Derek sighs, but it’s fond and full of affection, fingers trailing lightly over the blossoming bruises along Stiles’ cheekbones and under his eyes.

“I know, I’m a mess,” the coach murmurs, but Derek shakes his head.

“You’re beautiful,” he insists, leaning in to press a kiss to the least painful-looking bruise.

Stiles’ lips twitch up in another smile. “Sweet-talker. Careful what you say, Mr Hale, or I might not be able to resist jumping your bones, stitches or no stitches.”

“Hn-nn,” Derek trails a line of gentle kisses along his jaw. “I was there when the doctor told you to take it easy. No vigorous exercise for at least a week.”

“Guess you’re gonna have to do all the work, then.”

Derek sniffs a grin, but shakes his head again. “ _No_ , Stiles. Any and all bedroom action is banned for at least forty-eight hours.”

The coach sighs, aggrieved. “Spoilsport.”

“Mm. You love me anyway.”

“Yeah.” Stiles lifts his uninjured hand to touch Derek’s cheek, his expression gentling, his gaze warm. “Yeah, I do.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The car crash wasn't even planned. I'm so sorry. It just happened. Apparently I was craving some hurt/comfort. 
> 
> Next chapter - kindergarten time!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and feel free to request specific scenes if there's something particular you'd like to read. :)   
> xxx


	7. Chapter 7

 

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Derek says, pausing in the doorway to the living room. “Time to put your toys away.”

“But I wanna leave my puzzle out to show Stiles,” Isaac insists, glancing up from where he’s sprawled belly-down on the rug in front of the TV. “I did it all by myself.”

“Alright,” Derek acquiesces with and quiet smile. “But help your brother tidy up the other toys, okay?”

Isaac nods, getting up carefully so as not to disturb his jigsaw, and skips over to where he and Scott have created some sort of medieval-pirate-railway conglomeration out of a wooden train set and a couple of Playmobile kits. It’s an impressive design, but Derek know half the fun tends to be in the building of it, so the boys will be happy enough to make another one tomorrow.

The Alpha glances down at the sudden tug on his pant-leg.

“Can I go wake up Stiles?” Scott asks hopefully, bouncing in the balls of his feet as he smiles up at his father. “Please?”

The Alpha winces internally at the request, all too aware of Scott’s usual exuberance when it comes to waking people up, having been on the receiving end himself more times than he cares to count. There’s generally a lot of jumping-on-the-bed and incessant giggling involved. And although Stiles will probably think it’s _adorable,_ as usual, Derek isn’t keen to subject him to Scott’s enthusiasm until the man’s injuries have had time to fully heal.  

“Maybe next time, buddy,” he replies, smoothing a hand over Scott’s hair to soften the refusal. “Go help Isaac put the track away. It’ll be time to wash up for dinner in a moment.”

Scott pouts, but obediently moves over to join his brother. Five minutes, Derek knows, and the pup’s disappointment will already be forgotten. Especially with the promise of dinner on the horizon.

He leaves the boys to their tidying and heads upstairs, making as little noise as possible as he steps into the bedroom. Stiles is still fast asleep, curled up on top of the duvet, splinted wrist cradled near his chest and his other arm flung out across the pillows haphazardly. 

Derek perches on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath him, and carefully smooths back the man’s dark fringe.

Stiles stirs, shifting beneath Derek’s touch. “Nngh. Der?”

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” the werewolf murmurs softly. “You feel up to coming downstairs for dinner?”

“Mm,” Stiles confirms, eyes opening to a squint. “Do I get a kiss first?”

Derek smiles and obliges, cupping the man’s jaw gently as he leans down to press their mouths together, careful not to let things get too heated. It’s only been four days since the car accident, so the cut on Stiles’ bottom lip is still healing, as are the painful-looking bruises along his cheekbone and around his right eye. It’s been a struggle, at times, to rein in his protective instincts around the human, especially with how blasé Stiles seems to be about the whole ordeal. Sure, there were no fractures and only one small laceration that actually required stitches, but the man still smells tired and achy _all the fucking time._

Derek wants to curl himself around his mate and keep him comfortable and safe in the Den until he’s fully healed, but of course that had never really been a viable option. He’d fallen in love with a Stilinski, after all.

Because Stiles is stubborn and headstrong and _determined,_ and had therefore decided to resume his busy coaching schedule after giving himself only twenty-four hours to recover, which means that for the past three days he’s come home smelling even _more_ tired and pain-riddled. Thankfully, it hadn’t taken much persuading to get the man to lie down for an hour or two while Derek got things ready for dinner, but even so, the Alpha can’t help but worry about him. It’s instinctive; Stiles is his mate, and Stiles is _hurt_ – his Wolf isn’t a happy camper.

“Quit worrying about me, wolf-boy,” the human teases, a throaty purr, and curls the fingers of his uninjured hand into the front of Derek’s t-shirt to tug him back down again. “I’m not half as fragile as I look. Kiss me already.”

The Alpha sniffs a quiet grin. “I have to go set the table,” he argues, but presses his lips to the corner of the man’s smile. From there, he brushes a trail of feather-light kisses along his jaw before nipping lightly at the juncture of his neck, just to hear Stiles laugh.

“Don’t go starting something we won’t have time to finish,” his mate warns, amused, fingers combing through Derek’s hair.

The Alpha hums, pressing a kiss to the man’s pale throat. “Guess I’ll just have to ravish you later, huh?”

“Promises, promises.”

 

 

 

 

……………………

 

 

 

 

“Hale!”

A paper airplane flies smack into the side of Derek’s head, bouncing off his temple to flutter harmlessly to the floor. Isaac makes a noise of intrigue, letting go of the Alpha’s hand to bend down and pick it up.

It’s clearly a quiet day for the officers of BHPD.

Derek heaves a sigh, but he’s smiling. “Hey, Mack.”

The younger deputy grins at him from behind the main reception desk. “Great to see you, man. When do you start back with us?”

“A week on Monday,” Derek replies, settling his hand on Isaac’s curly head to reaffirm that the pup’s still there.

“Me an’ Isaac are goin’ to school!” Scott pipes up cheerfully, swinging from Derek’s other hand. “Stiles says Daddy needs to go to work so he doesn’t get bored.”

Mack grins, arching an amused eyebrow in Derek’s direction. “Is that so?”

The Alpha manages a convincingly unbothered smile in return, but to be perfectly honest, he’s still partially in denial that summer vacation is nearing its end so soon; in eight short days, Scott and Isaac will be starting Kindergarten, and Derek still doesn’t feel ready to part with them. He’s had the whole summer to build himself up to this, but the weeks have passed by so _quickly,_ especially with Stiles around, and he feels like he’s hardly had a spare moment to really think things through.

Of course, the boys are both bubbling with excitement at the prospect of starting school. Stiles had bought a book home last weekend called _‘Pup Goes to Kindergarten’_ ; a colourfully illustrated story about a young Were-cub discovering new sights and scents and sounds during his first day at Kindergarten. Scott and Isaac had been demanding it as their bedtime story for the last six days in a row, much to Stiles’ delight.

And there’s a part of Derek that feels like an idiot for being so torn up about it, especially since the kids are obviously so keen – but he can’t easily ignore what his instincts are telling him. He’s the Alpha, and they’re his _cubs._ They aren’t supposed to be away from the Den for six hours a day, it just feels wrong.

“Thought I smelled trouble,” Deputy Parrish remarks, appearing from the back corridor with a box of files under one arm. He sets the box down on the edge of his desk and drops into a crouch, opening his arms wide with a grin. “C’mere, munchkins.”

Scott darts away from Derek’s side, Isaac only half a step behind him, both boys plastering themselves to Jordan’s front as the Phoenix laughs, wrapping his arms around them in a crushing hug. He smiles at Derek over Isaac’s curls.

“Hey, Derek. Let me guess: paperwork?”

The Alpha pulls a face. “Paperwork,” he confirms. “John’s been bugging me about it all summer, and now he’s got Stiles on my back, too.”

“Kid can be pretty persuasive,” Parish sympathises, standing up with a giggling pup held under each arm like two squirming sacks of potatoes. “John said you might be stopping by – figure Stiles must’ve given him the heads-up this morning. He asked Sarah to leave the contracts out for you in the back office. Want me to hold onto these little scamps until you’re done?”

Derek smiles gratefully. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Hey, what are future in-laws for?” Jordan replies with a wink and a grin, giving the two pups a gentle shake as they clutch at him and giggle. “Alright, kids, who wants to go see if Grandpa still has candy hidden in his desk?”

“Me!” the boys chorus.

Reassured that his children will be well taken care of (and likely spoiled rotten) by their new pseudo-grandparents, Derek heads into the back office to get started on his employment paperwork.

It takes him longer than it ought to, mostly because people keep coming up to him to ask about the kids and update him on all the latest station gossip. He’s heard a lot of it before from John and Mack, who had stopped by the house every other week or so for a cup of coffee after he quit the force to raise Isaac and Scott. Plus, ever since he started dating Stiles, he’s been privy to a lot of insider’s information about who’s going out with who. Which is why it doesn’t come as a huge surprise that everyone seems to know about his own relationship. Stiles is the Sheriff’s son, and by the sounds of it he spent half his childhood hanging out at the station and being babysat by some of the senior officers. He’s probably more a part of the team than Derek is, to be honest.

Before he knows it, more than an hour has passed, and he blinks up at the clock in surprise, feeling a twinge of guilt at how long he’s been standing around chatting with his old colleagues instead of focusing on the task at hand. Scribbling his signature onto the final page of the contract, he shoves it back in its envelope, exchanging a few hasty goodbyes with the other deputies before heading off in search of his children.

“Daddy, look!” Isaac pipes up as soon as he steps into the Sheriff’s office, grinning at him from his seat in John’s lap behind the desk. He taps a scribble-covered sheet of paper with his pencil. “I’m doing work too!”

“Hey, good job,” Derek praises dutifully, sharing a brief smile with John before glancing around the room. “Where’s Scott?”

Isaac scribbles another wobbly line onto his sheet of paper. “He wanted to see the police cars again.”

“Ah.” Thankfully Scott’s obsession with anything vehicle-related hadn’t been adversely affected by the car crash last week, although Isaac still seemed a little uneasy around them. “You ready to go, kiddo?”

The pup glances up from his ‘work’ with a pout, eyes big and pleading. “But I’m helping Grandpa with his papers, Daddy.”

“And you’ve done excellent work today, deputy,” the Sheriff reassures, dropping a kiss against his curly hair. “But it’s time to clock off now.”

“We need to pick up Stiles after practice, remember?” Derek adds, knowing just how to get the kid moving.

Predictably, Isaac perks up at that, jumping down from John’s lap to go and latch on to one of Derek’s hand. “C’mon! Maybe if we get there early we can watch them play.”

The Alpha smiles, but stops Isaac from dragging him out of the room with a gentle tug on his hand. “What do you need to say to the Sheriff first?”

“Oh!” Isaac lets go of his hand again to dash back around the desk for a hug. “Bye, Grandpa. Thanks for the chocolate an’ gummies.”

“Thank you for looking after him, John,” Derek adds gratefully, and waves the manila envelope to indicate his completed forms before setting them down on top of a nearby cabinet. “Sorry about the delay, took me longer than I expected.”

“It was no trouble,” the Sheriff reassures, leaning down to give Isaac a quick squeeze. “You and the boys are welcome any time. You still owe us a sleepover after last week. If you and Stiles fancy the odd night off, just let us know.”

“Sleepover?” Isaac echoes hopefully, shooting his father an excited look.

Derek smiles, shaking his head. “Not today, kiddo. We’ll talk about it later, okay? C’mon, let’s go find your brother.”

Scott’s seated behind the wheel of one of the parked police cruisers, looking like all his Christmases have come at once as Jordan lets him switch the lights on and off. Derek grins fondly, ducking down to lean in through the open window.

“Hey, buddy. Having fun?”

The pup nods, beaming up at him. “Dad, Pops let me beep the horn and it was really loud! When can I learn to drive?”

“Not for another ten years,” Derek replies, the same answer he gives every time Scott asks him that question, and smiles across at Parrish. “Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”

“No problem, man.” Jordan ruffles Scott’s dark hair. “We had fun. Right, kid?”

“Uh-huh,” Scott agrees, grinning. “Pops let me drink _coffee.”_

The deputy laughs, then shrugs when Derek raises an incredulous eyebrow at him. “Just a sip. He didn’t like it.”

“It tasted _gross_ , Dad,” the pup confirms, button-nose wrinkling in remembered disgust. “Not like chocolate at _all._ How come you an’ Stiles like it so much?”

“Because we’re grownups,” Derek tells him, opening the car door and leaning around to unfasten Scott’s safety belt. “And grownups like weird stuff sometimes.”

“Oh,” Scott says acceptingly, and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck in a cuddle. “That’s okay. I love you even if you like weird stuff.”

Derek hides his smile against Scott’s hair, hearing the muffled cough of Jordan’s suppressed laughter from the next seat over, and wraps his arms around the pup to return the hug.

“Thanks, buddy.”

 

 

 

 

…………………….

 

 

 

 

The last full moon of summer vacation is on a Sunday, which means that for the first time since they started dating, Stiles doesn’t have any coaching commitments during the evening celebration.

“Well, someone’s happy,” Stiles laughs, as Derek rolls over on top of him in bed and starts pressing kisses along his jaw. “Should’ve said something last night, maybe there could’ve been a round three.”

Derek nips the side of Stiles’ throat, his inner Wolf _preening_ at the thought of finally being able to run with Stiles when the moon is at its peak. His mate not only has the evening off, but most of the afternoon as well, which means Derek can drag him along to the family barbeque and show him off to the rest of his extended Pack.

He runs a possessive hand down Stiles’ side, kissing him deeply, heat thrumming beneath his skin as the younger man moans and arches into him, hips rolling. _Mine,_ his Wolf says. _Mate. Claim._

“Shower,” Stiles manages between biting kisses. “Dere- aah! Derek, I still have the junior team to coach this morning, I don’t have time to… _fuck,_ okay, but this better be quick.”

He can manage ‘quick’. Quick and hard and heated, enough to sate his Wolf’s moon-hunger and leave Stiles gasping and trembling beneath him, sweaty and flushed and _gorgeous._ Fuck yeah, he can do that.

“Full moon sex,” the human moans, approximately eight minutes later, eyes closed and chest heaving. “Forgot how awesome that was. Round two later tonight, big boy.” He pats Derek’s arm clumsily. “Right now I _really_ need a shower, but since I can’t move my legs and it’s entirely _your_ fault, you’re gonna have to carry me there.”

Derek sniffs a grin and obliges, and doesn’t even try to hide his smug satisfaction when Stiles can’t stand up without wobbling for a full ten minutes.

 

 

 

 

………………….

 

 

 

 

Talia swoops in to squeeze the stuffing out of his mate the moment they step out of the car. The rest of the Pack aren’t far behind, Laura elbowing her way past her elder brothers so that she can yank the human into a hug, rubbing their cheeks together.

“We’re so glad you could join us, Stiles,” Derek hears his mother say as he leans into the back of the car to help Scott and Isaac out of their booster seats. “How’s your wrist?”

“Better, thank you,” Stiles replies, albeit somewhat muffled (presumably by whoever’s hugging him now). “Another week and I can lose the splint, thank go- _oomph!_ Hey, Jackson.”

“Hi, coach!”

The Alpha straightens up with a smile, glancing back towards the knot of Werewolves where his mate’s currently shaking hands with one of Derek’s second-cousins from out of town, Jackson wrapped around his legs like an octopus.

“Uncle Peter!” Scott calls, and dashes around Derek to make a beeline for the older Beta, who drops into a crouch briefly to scoop him up in a bear-hug.

Isaac, always a little wary around crowds even when they’re among Pack, clings tightly to one of Derek’s hands as he glances at the milling family members, unsure who to go to first.

“And how’s my littlest grandson doing?” Alexander Hale calls, striding out from the noisy group and cutting across the lawn towards them. Isaac loses the tension from his shoulders instantly and lets go of Derek’s hand to go sprinting off towards the greying Wolf, giggling when Alex catches him up under the arms and tosses him into the air.

“Derek,” the Hale patriarch greets a moment later, Isaac on his hip, and steps closer to pull his son into a one-armed hug, kissing his temple. “You’re looking happy.”

Derek knows it. There’s nothing he can do about the wide, cheek-aching grin he’s wearing, because it simply refuses to dissipate. How can he _not_ smile? Stiles is here, on the full moon, with his family. And Stiles smells so _happy._ Derek’s inner Wolf has never felt so contented.

That feeling only grows as evening approaches and the moon begins to rise. The kids are almost vibrating with energy by the time Talia invites everyone ready themselves for the first run, and Derek has to keep a gentle hand on Scott’s shoulder to keep the boy from darting off into the woods there and then. It’s only just gone seven, a little too early for most of the adult Wolves and teenagers to _really_ let off some steam, but this first run is more for the pups and parents – and for those who would prefer a more sedate pace rather than the intensity of the midnight hunt.

“You’re coming, right, Stiles?” Isaac beseeches, tugging on the human’s pant-leg.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Stiles promises, ruffling his hair with a smile. “Plus your Daddy would get all pouty if I decided to stay behind.”

“Would not,” Derek argues, but he’s smiling. They both know it’s a lie anyway.

“Aren’t you gonna change, Dad?” Scott asks, peering up at him.

Derek hesitates. Stiles has seen him in his Beta shift, but never in his full shift. It’s true, he does tend to run as a Wolf, it’s what his instincts tell him is _right_ , but outside of a full moon it’s a lot harder to harness sufficient strength to change fully like that, so he’s never tried to do it in the Den.

But his mate’s looking at him expectantly, and the boys are openly puzzled by his apparent hesitation, so he steps back a couple of paces and sinks into a crouch, closing his eyes and letting his instincts take over for a moment.

It’s painful – the full shift always is – and he holds his breath at the feeling of bones and joints reshaping themselves, heat flowing through him in a tingling wave, sickening pops running down his spine as his form changes, heart beating double-time at the sudden rush of power that hits him. His senses spike, everything smelling stronger and pulsing louder, the crunch of grass beneath his feet almost deafening.

And then it settles, and he’s Derek again. Or at least _mostly_ Derek. He’s more than Derek now, too.

In his Wolf form, he’s still an inch or so taller than both his cubs, but _god,_ he can tell they’ve grown. Rumbling deep in his chest, he steps carefully out of his clothes and bumps his head against Scott’s gently, licking at the boy’s face, tail wagging when his eldest giggles and throws his arms around Derek’s neck in a hug. Isaac’s arms join his brother’s a moment later, and the Alpha turns his head as much as he can to lick the younger pup’s ticklish ear.

A hand on his head stills him for a moment, before the scent of _mate_ hits him like a hazy, heavenly fog, and his tail renews its wagging. He glances up to meet Stiles’ gaze, the human smiling down at him with open warmth and gentle humour.

“Do I get a kiss too?”

Derek snorts, but pads forwards a couple of steps when Stiles crouches down and slobbers all over the human’s face just to see Stiles wrinkle his nose in surprised yelp of laughter.

“Well, I suppose I asked for that,” he admits, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand, before leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Derek’s furry brow. “So. We running or what?”

“Yeah!” Scott cheers, grabbing Isaac’s hand and taking off towards the treeline, Stiles half a pace behind them. “C’mon, Dad! Race you!”

Tail thumping, Derek gives a soft, affirming bark and dashes off after them.

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! Can't believe we're almost there.  
> Thanks for sticking with this story, dear readers! And sorry about the delayed update. <3 xxx


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